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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS 



EDITED 

BY 



ROSSITER JOFINSON 



< 



Does he paint? he fain would write a poem ; 
Does he write? he fain would paint a picture, — 
Put to proof art alien to the artist's, 
Once, and only once, and for One only. 

Robert Browning. 



^-. 




NEW YORK 
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

1877 

9^ 








Copyright by 

HENRY HOLT 

1877. 



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_ Trow's 

I'RINTING AND BoOKBTNniNG Co. 

205-213 East \ith St., 

NEW YORK. 



PREFACE 



There are wide differences in the fame of the poems here 
collected, as well as in their merits. Some are familiar to 
everybody who reads poetry at all ; others find reputation 
and perpetuity only with particular classes. A few, like 
those of Bishop Berkeley and Michael Barry, have been 
saved from oblivion by a single happy line or quatrain; 
while the richness and perfection of many leave us in wonder 
that their authors produced no more. If critical judgment 
in such matters is worth anything when opposed to a popular 
verdict, some of these authors have written better poems for 
no reward at all, than those which have given them fame. 
However this may be, the present volume is intended to 
represent popular rather than critical taste, and to include 
all the poems in the language which fairly come under its 
title,— excepting only those numerous anonymous ballads 
belonging to the early centuries of our literature, which are 
preserved in Percy's and other collections. In cases of 
doubt, I have generally decided in favor of insertion. It is 



vi PBEFACE. 

not expected that any one reader will prize all the poems 
here brought together ; if each finds what he looks for, no 
one need be offended because the volume also includes some 
which he could have spared. 

Thanks are due to living writers represented, for permis- 
sion to use their poems. In but one instance was this re- 
fused, — though in two or three cases their address could not 
be obtained. 

The poems are arranged nearly, if not exactly, in chrono- 
logical order. Where any special history attaches to them, 
it will generally be found in the Notes at the end of the 
book. K J". 

New Yorh, August 1, 1877. 



CONTENTS. 








PAGE. 


Afae in the Desert, . 


Thomas Pr ingle 


. 119 


Angler's Wish, The 


Izaak Walton 


23 


Annuity, The 


George Outram 


. 142 


Antony and Cleopatra, 


William H. Lytle 


217 


AuLD EoBiN Gray, . 


Lady Anne Barnard 


. 88 


Balaklava, 


Alexander B. Meek 


186 


Ballad of Agincourt, The 


Michael Drayton 


. 10 


Beacon, The 


P. M. James 


122 


Beggar, The . 


Thomas Moss . 


. 96 


Bells of Shandon, The 


Francis Mahony . 


149 


Bivouac of the Dead, The 


Theodore OHara . 


. 197 


Bonnie George Campbell, 


Anonymous 


36 


Braes of Yarrow, The . 


William Hamilton . 


. 52 


Bride, The 


Sir John Suckling 


24 


Bucket, The . 


Samuel Woodworth 


. 115 


Burial of Moses, The 


Cecil Frances Alexander 


249 


Burns, Ode on the Cente- 






nary OF . 


Isa Craig Knox 


. 229 


Carmen Bellicosum, . 


Guy H. McMaster 


220 


Chameleon, The . 


James Merrick 


. 65 


Children, The . 


Charles M. Dickinson . 


274 


Christmas Hymn, A 


Alfred Domr^ett 


. 180 



Churchyard, Lines written 
IN A . 



Herhert Knowles . 



130 



viii CONTENTS. 




Civil War, . 


Anonymous . 


262 


Closing Year, The . 


George D. Prentice 


135 


Cloud, The . 


John Wilson . 


. 114 


CONXEL AND FlORA, . 


Alexander Wilson 


95 


Contented Mind, A 


Joshua Sylvester 


. 15 


Countersign, The 


Anonymous 


264 


Cuckoo, To the 


John Logan 


. 87 


CuMNOR Hall, . . . 


William J. Mickle 


72 


Curfew Must not Eing To- 






night, 


Anonymous 


. 253 


Death-Bed, A . 


James Aldrich 


179 


Death of ITapoleon, The 


Isaac McOlellan 


. 151 


Death's Final Conquest, . 


James Shirley 


24 


Doneraile, a Litany for 


Patrick a Kelly . 


. 106 


Doris, .... 


Arthur Munby 


221 


Driving Home the Cows, . 


Kate Putnam Osgood 


. 267 


EXEQUT, 


Henry King 


19 


Exile to his Wife, The 


Joseph Brenan 


. 223 


Florence Yane, 


Philip P. Cooke . 


. 190 


Forging of the Anchor, The Samuel Fei-guson 


. 146 


G-affer G-ray, 


Thomas Holcroft 


85 


G-eehale, .... 


Henry R. Schoolcraft 


. 127 


G-luggity G-lug, 


Anonymous 


158 


Good Ale, 


John Still 


. 18 


G-RAVE OF Bonaparte, The 


Anonymous 


152 


G-RONGAR Hill, . 


John Dyer 


. 46 


Groves of Blarney, The 


Richard A. Milliken 


92 


Happy Land, The . 


Andrew Young 


. 157 


Health, A . . . 


Edward Q. Pinkney 


138 


Helen of Kirkconnel, . 


John Mayne . 


. 93 


Here She Goes — and There 




She Goes, . 


James Nack 


. 158 



CONTENTS. ix 

Hermit, The . . . Thomas Parnell . . 37 
Hundred Years to Come, A William G. Brown . 203 



Indian GtOld Coin, To an JoJin Ley den 



. 100 



Irish Emigrant, Lament of 






the .... 


Lady Dufferin . 


155 


Ivy G-reen, The 


Charles Dickens 


. 181 


I Would not Live Amvay, 


William A. Muhlenberg 


128 


Jolly Old Pedagogue, The 


George Arnold 


. 226 


Life, .... 


Anna L. Barhauld 


83 


Light, .... 


William Pitt Palmer 


. 177 


Llncoln, Abraham . 


Tom Taylor 


193 


Little Goose, A . 


Eliza Sproat Turner 


. 270 


Love me Little, Love me 






Long, .... 


Anonymous 


16 


Lucy's Flittin', 


William Laidlaw . 


. 105 


Lye, The . 


Sir Walter Raleigh 


2 


Man's Mortality, . 


Simon Wastel 


. 6 


Mariner's Dream, The 


William Diamond 


131 


Mary's Dream, 


John Lowe 


. 89 


Memory of the Dead, The 


John Kells Ingram 


195 


Milton's Prayer of Pa- 






tience, .. 


Elizabeth Lloyd Howell 


. 252 


MiTHERLESS BaIRN, ThE 


William Thorn . 


117 


Modest Wit, A 


Selleck Osborne 


. Ill 


Mortality, 


William Knox 


122 


My Dear and Only Love, 


Marquis of Montrose 


. 27 


My Maryland, . 


James R. Randall 


259 


My Mind to me a Kingdom is 


, William Byrd 


. 1 


Nautilus and the Ammonite 






The . 


Anonymous 


218 


Nearer, my God, to Thee, 


Sarah F. Adams 


. 199 


Night, .... 


Joseph Blanco White . 


99 


Nothing to Wear, 


William Allen Batler 


. 207 



X 


CONTENTS, 




Old Canoe, The 




Anonymous 


247 


Old Gtrimes, . 




Albert G. Greene . 


. 133 


Old Sergeant, The . 


, 


Forceythe Willson 


234 


Old Sexton, The . 


. 


Park Benjamin 


. 175 


Only a Baby Small, . 


. 


Matthias Barr 


226 


Only Waiting, 


. 


Anonymous 


. 248 


Orphan Boy, The- 




Amelia Opie 


97 


OvER THE River, . 


• 


Nancy Priest Wakefield 


. 232 


Pauper's Drive, The 




Thomas Noel 


180 


Philosopher's Scales, 


The 


Jane Taylor 


. 109 


Picket G-uard, The . 


. 


Ethel Lynn Beers 


263 


Place where ]SIan should 






Die, The 




Michael J. Barry . 


. 202 


Polish Boy, The 




Ann S. Stephens 


182 


Popping Corn, 




Anonymous 


. 268 


Private of the Buffe 


i, The 


Sir Francis H. Doyle . 


176 


Prospect of Planting 


Arts 






and Learning in Amer- 






ica, On the 


• 


George Berkeley 


. ^ 


Rain on the Roof, 




Coates Kinney 


244 


Revelry in India, 


. 


Bartholomew Bowling 


. 256 


Riddle, A 


. 


Catherine Fanshawe . 


109 


Rising of the Moon, The 


John K. Casey 


. 258 


Rock :me to Sleep, 


• 


Flizaheth Akers Allen 


224 


Sailor's Wife, The 




Jean Adam 


. 76 


Saint Patrick, . 


. 


Benry Bennett . 


113 


Sally in our Alley, 


. 


Henry Carey 


. 44 


School-Mistress, The 


. 


William Shenstone 


56 


She Died in Beauty, 


. 


Charles Doyne Sillery 


. 163 


Sherman's March to 


the 






Sea, . 




Samuel H. M. Byers . 


265 


Sidney, Lament for 


Sir 






Philip . 




Mathew Roydon 


. 5 


Skeleton, Lines on a 




Anonymous 


201 



CONTENTS. 


xi 


Soldier, The . 


William Smtjth 


95 


Soliloquy, A . . . 


Walter Harte 


61 


Song, .... 


Sir Charles Sedleij . 


26 


Soul's Defiance, The 


Lavinia Stoddard 


116 


Splendid Shilling, The . 


John Philips . 


32 


Stanzas, .... 


Richard Henry Wilde 


118 


Star-Spangled Banner, The 


Francis Scott Key . 


103 


Steam, The Song of . 


George W. Cutter 


204 


Take thy Old Cloak About 






thee, 


Anonymous . 


13 


Tale of a Tub, The New . 


F. W. N. Bayley 


164 


Tears of Scotland, The 


Tobias Smollett 


69 


The Dule 's i' this Bonnet 






o' Mine, 


Edwin Waugh 


191 


The Tears I Shed, . 


Helen Cranstoim Stewart 


99 


Three Sons, The 


John Moultrie 


139 


Three Warnings, The . 


Hester Thrale 


80 


Tired Mothers, 


May Riley Smith . 


272 


Too Late, 


Fitz-Hugh Ludlow 


239 


Toper's Apology, The 


Charles Morris 


78 


Twins, The . 


Henry S. Leigh . 


269 


Two Worlds, The . 


Mortimer Collins 


243 


Verses, 


Chedioch Tichehorne 


9 


Vicar of Bray, The . ' . 


Anonymous 


71 


Visit from St. Nicholas, A 


Clement C. Moore . 


102 


Waly, Waly, but Love be 






Bonny, 


Anonymous 


68 


We'll Go to Sea no More, 


Miss Corhett . 


125 


What Constitutes a State 


Sir William Jones 


86 


What is Time ? 


William Marsden . 


90 


What the End shall be, . 


Anonymous 


240 


When Shall we Three Meet 






Again? . 


Anonymous 


84 


Whistler, The . 


Robert Story . 


124 



xii CO^^TENTS. 

Why thus Longing ? . Harriet Winsloiu SeicaJl 206 

Widow Malone, . . Charles Lever . . 153 

Willie Winkie, . , William Miller . . 246 
Willy Drowned in Yarrow, Anonymous . • . .8 

Ye Gtentlemen of England, Martyn Parlzer . . 26 

KoTES, 277 

Index of First Lines, . . , » . . . 281 



SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 



MVi Min^ to me a l^mstjom i0» 

My mind to me a kingdom is, 

Such perfect joy therein I find 
As far exceeds all earthly bliss 

That God or nature hath assigned ; 
Though much I want that most would have, 
Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 

Content I live, this is my stay: 
I seek no more than may suffice : 

I press to bear no haughty sway : 

Look ! what I lack, my miiid supplies. 

Lo ! tnus I triumph like a king, 

Content with what my mind doth bring. 

I see how plenty surfeits oft. 
And hasty climbers soonest fall ; 

I see that such as sit aloft 

Mishap doth threaten most of all : 

These get with toil and keep with fear ; 

Such cares my mind could never bear. 



SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Some have too much, yet still they crave ; 

I little have, yet seek no more ; 
They are but poor, though much they have, 

And I am rich with little store. 
They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; 
They lack, I lend ; they pine, I hve. 

I laugh not at another's loss, 
I grudge not at another's gain : 

Ko worldly wave my mind can toss, 
I brook that is another's bane : 

I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend ; 

I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. 

I wish but what I have at will, 
I wander not to seek for more, 

I like the plain, I climb no hill, 
In greatest storms I sit on shore, 

And laugh at them that toil in vain, 

To get what must be lost again. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease. 
My conscience clear my chief defense ; 

I never seek by bribes to please, 
Nor by desert to give offense ; 

Thus do I live, thus will I die, 

Would all did so as well as I. 



William Byrd. 



GoE, soule, the bodie's guest. 
Upon a thanklesse arrant ; 
Feare not to touche the best — 
The truth shall be thy warrant I 
Groe, since I needs must dye, 
And give the world the lye. 



TEE LYE. 

Goe tell the court it glowes 

And shines like rotten wood ; 
Goe tell the church it showes 
What 's good, and doth no good ; 
If church and court reply, 
Then give them both the lye. 

Tell potentates they live 

Acting by others' actions — 
!N"ot loved unlesse they give, 

Not strong but by their factions ; 
If potentates reply. 
Give potentates the lye. 

Tell men of high condition. 
That rule affairs of state, 
Their purpose is ambition, 
Their practice only hate ; 
And if they once reply, 
Then give them all the lye. 

Tell them that brave it most 

They beg for more by spending, 
Who in their greatest cost 

Seek nothing but commending; 
And if they make reply. 
Spare not to give the lye. 

Tell zeale it lacks devotion ; 

Tell love it is but lust ; 
Tell time it is but motion ; 
Tell flesh it is but dust ; 
And wish them not reply. 
For thou must give the lye. 

Tell age it daily wasteth; 
Tell honour hoAV it alters ; 



BIXGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Tell beauty how she blasteth ; 
TeU favour how she falters : 
And as they then reply, 
Give each of them the lye. 

TeU wit how much it wrangles 
In tickle points of nicenesse ; 
Tell wisdome she entangles 
Herself e in over-wisenesse ; 
And if they do reply, 
Straight give them both the lye. 

Tell physicke of her boldnesse ; 

Tell skill it is pretension ; 
Tell charity of coldnesse ; 
TeU law it is contention ; 
And as they yield reply, 
So give them still the lye. 

TeU fortune of her blindnesse ; 

TeU nature of decay ; 
TeU friendship of unkindnesse ; 
Tell justice of delay ; 
And if they dare reply, 
Then give them aU the lye. 

Tell arts they have no soundnesse. 

But vary by esteeming; 
Tell schooles they want profoundnesse. 
And stand too much on seeming ; 
If arts and schooles reply, 
Grive arts and schooles the lye. 

TeU faith it 's fled the citie ; 

TeU how the country erreth; 
Tell, manhood shakes off pitie ; 

TeU, vertue least pref erreth ; 



LAMENT FOE SIB PHILIP SIDNEY. 

And if they do reply, 
Spare not to give tlie lye. 

So, when thou hast, as I 

Commanded thee, done blabbing — • 
Although to give the lye 

Deserves no less than stabbing — 
Yet stab at thee who will, 
No stab the soule can kill. 

Sir Walter Kaleigii. 



Uament for Sir ^PJt'U'p Sitmeg* 

You knew — who knew not Astrophel ? 

That I should live to say I knew, 
And have not in possession still ! — 

Things known permit me to renew. 
Of him you know his merit such 
I cannot say — you hear — too much. 

Within these woods of Arcady 
He chief dehght and pleasure took ; 

And on the mountain Partheny, 
Upon the crystal liquid brook, 

The muses met him every day, — 

Taught him to sing, and write, and say. 

When he descended down the mount 
His personage seemed most divine ; 

A thousand graces one might count 
Upon his lovely, cheerful eyne. 

To hear him speak, and see him smile, 

You were in Paradise the while. 

A sweet, attractive kind of grace ; 
A full assurance given by looks ; 



SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Continual comfort in a face ; 

The lineaments of gospel books : 
I trow that countenance cannot lie 
Whose thoughts are legible in the eye. 

Above all others this is he 

Who erst approved in his song 
That love and honor might agree, 

And that pure love will do no wrong. 
Sweet saints, it is no sin or blame 
To love a man of virtuous name. 

Did never love so sweetly breathe 

In any mortal breast before ; 
Did never muse inspire beneath 

A poet's brain with finer store. 
He wrote of love with high conceit, 
And beauty reared above her height. 

Mathew Eoydon 



Like as the damask rose you see, 

Or like the blossoms on the tree. 

Or like the dainty flower of May, 

Or like the morning of the day. 

Or like the sun, or like the shade. 

Or hke the gourd which Jonas had ; 

Even such is man, whose thread is spun. 

Drawn out and cut, and so is done. 

The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, 

The flower fades, the morning hasteth, 

The sun sets, the shadow flies, 

The gourd consumes, and man — he dies ! 

Like to the grass that 's newly sprung. 
Or like a tale that 's new begun, 



MAN'S MORTALITY. 

Or like a bird that 's here to-day, 

Or hke the pearled dew of May, 

Or like an hour, or like a span, 

Or like the singing of a swan ; 

Even such is man, who lives by breath, 

Is here, now there, in life and death. 

The grass withers, the tale is ended. 

The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended, 

The hour is short, the span not long, 

The swan near deatli, — man's life is done ! 

Like to a bubble in the brook. 
Or in a glass much like a look, 
Or like a shuttle in a weaver's hand, 
Or like the writing on the sand, 
Or like a thought, or like a dream, 
Or like the gliding of a stream ; 
Even such is man, who lives by breatli, 
Is here, now there, in life and death. 
The bubble 's out, the look 's forgot. 
The shuttle 's flung, the writing 's blot. 
The thought is past, the dream is gone, 
The water glides, — man's life is done ! 

Like to a blaze of fond delight. 
Or hke a morning clear and bright, 
. Or like a frost, or like a shower. 
Or like the pride of Babel's tower. 
Or like the hour that guides the time, 
Or like to Beauty in her prime ; 
Even such is man, whose glory lends 
That life a blaze or tAvo, and ends. 
The morn 's o'ercast, joy turned to pain, 
The frost is thawed, dried up the rain. 
The tower falls, the hour is run, 
The beauty lost, — man's life is done ! 



SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Like to an arrow from the bow, 

Or like swift course of water-flow, 

Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb, 

Or hke the spider's tender web, 

Or like a race, or hke a goal, 

Or like the dealing of a dole ; 

Even such is man, whose brittle state 

Is always subject unto Fate. 

The arrow 's shot, the flood soon spent, 

The time 's no time, the web soon rent, 

The race soon run, the goal soon won, 

The dole soon dealt, — man's life is done ! 

Like to the lightning from the sky, 
Or like a post that quick doth hie, 
Or like a quaver in a short song, 
Or like a journey three days long, 
Or like the snow when summer's come. 
Or like the pear, or like the plum ; 
Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow, 
Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow. 
The hghtning 's past, the post must go, 
The song is short, the journey 's so, 
The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall, 
The snow dissolves, — and so must all ! 

Simon Wastel. 

visaing laroloneti in ¥artoto. 

" Willy 's rare, and "Willy 's fair. 
And Willy 's wondrous bonny ; 
And Willy heght to marry me, 
Grin e'er he married ony. 

" Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid. 
This night I '11 make it narrow ; 
For a' the livelang winter night 
I ly twined of my marrow. 



VERSES. 

" Oh came you by yon water-side ? 
Pou'd you the rose or hly ? 
Or came you by yon meadow green ? 
Or saw you my sweet Willy ? " 

She sought him east, she sought him west, 
She sought him braid and narrow ; 

Syne in the cleaving of a craig, 
She found him drowned in Yarrow. 

Anonymous. 



WRITTEN IN THE TOWER, THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION. 

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares, 
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain. 

My crop of corn is but a field of tares, 

And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain. 

The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun ; 

And now I live, and now my life is done ! 

My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung, 
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green. 

My youth is past, and yet I am but young, 
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen. 

My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun ; 

And now I live, and now my life is done ! 

I sought for death and found it in the wombe, 
I lookt for hfe, and yet it was a shade, 

I trade the ground, and knew it was my tombe. 
And now I die, and now I am but made. 

The glass is full, and yet my glass is run ; 

And now I live, and now my life is done ! 

Chediock Ticheborne. 

1* 



1 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. 

C{)e 13allat» of Egincourt 

Fair stood the wind for France, 
When Ave our sails advance, 
Nor now to prove our chance 

Longer will tarry ; 
But putting to the main, 
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train, 

Landed King Harry. 

And taking many a fort. 
Furnished in warlike sort, 
Marched toward Agincourt 

In happy hour — 
Skirmishing day by day 
With those that stopped his way, 
Where the French general lay 

With all his power, 

Which in his height of pride. 
King Henry to deride. 
His ransom to provide 

To the king sending ; 
Which he neglects the while, 
As from a nation vile. 
Yet, with an angry smile. 
Their fall portending. 

And turning to his men, 
Quoth our brave Henry then : 
Though they be one to ten, 

Be not amazed ; 
Yet have we well begun — 
Battles so bravely won 
Have ever to the sun 

By fame been raised. 



THE BALLAD OF AQINGOURT, U 

And for myself, quoth he, 
This my full rest shall be ; 
England ne'er mourn for me, 

IlTor more esteem me. 
Victor I will remain. 
Or on this earth lie slain : 
Never shall she sustain 

Loss to redeem me. 

Poitiers and Cressy tell, 

When most their pride did swell, 

Under our swords they fell ; 

No less our skill is 
Than when our grandsire great, 
Claiming the regal seat, 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopped the French Hlies. 

The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vaward led ; 
With the main Henry sped, 

Amongst his henchmen. 
Excester had the rear — ■ 
A braver man not there : 
O Lord ! how hot they were 

On the false Frenchmen ! 

They now to fight are gone ; 

Armor on armor shone ; 

Drum now to drum did groan — 

To hear was wonder ; 
That with the cries they make 
The very earth did shake ; 
Trumpet to trumpet spake, 

Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham ! 



SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Wliich did the signal aim 

To our hid forces ; 
When, from a meadow by, 
Like a storm suddenly, 

The Enghsh archery 

Struck the French horses, 

With Spanish yew so strong, 
Arrows a cloth-yard long. 
That like to serpents stung, 

Piercing the wether; 
!N'one from his fellow starts, 
But playing manly parts, 
And like true Enghsh hearts, 

Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw, 
And forth their bilbows drew, 
And on the French they flew, 

Not one was tardy : 
Arms were from shoulders sent ; 
Scalps to the teeth were rent ; 
Down the French peasants went ; 

Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble king. 
His broadsword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding, 

As to o'erwhekn it ; 
And many a deep wound lent, 
His arms with blood besprent, 
And many a cruel dent 

Bruised his helmet 

Glo'ster, that duke so good, 
Kext of the royal blood. 
For famous England stood, 
With his brave brother — 



TAKE THY OLD CLOAKE ABOUT THEE. 13 

Clarence, in steel so bright, 
Though but a maiden knight, 
Yet in that furious fight 
Scarce such another. 

Warwick in blood did wade ; 
Oxford the foe invade, 
And cruel slaughter made, 

Still as they ran up. 
Suffolk his axe did ply, 
Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right doughtily, 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon St. Crispin's day 
Fought was this noble fray, 
Which fame did not delay 

To England to carry ; 
Oh, when shall Englishmen 
With such acts fill a pen, 
Or England breed again 

Such a King Harry ? 

Michael Drayton. 

Calte tjg (^Xti (ftlmtz aiiout tfiee. 

This winter weather, it waxeth cold, 

And frost doth freese on every hill ; 
And Boreas blows his blastes so cold 

That all our cattell are hke to spill. 
Bell, my wife, who loves no strife, 

Shee sayd unto me quietlye, 
" Else up, and save cowe Crumbocke's life — 

Man, put thy old cloake about thee." 

" Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne ? 
Thou kenst my cloake is very thin ; 
2 



1 4 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS 

It is so bare and overworne 

A cricke he thereon can not renn. 

Then He no longer borrowe or lend — 
For once He new apparelled be ; 

To-morrow He to town, and spend, 
For He have a new cloake about me. 



" Cow Crumbocke is a very good cow — 

She has been alwayes true to the payle ; 
She has helped us to butter and cheese, I trow, 

And other things she will not f ayle ; 
I wold be loth to see her pine ; — 

Grood husbande, counsel take of me — 
It is not for us to go so fine ; 

Man, take thy old cloake about thee." 

"My cloake, it was a very good cloake — 

It hath been alwayes true to the weare ; 
But now it is not worth a groat, 

I have had it four-and-forty year. 
Sometime it was of cloth in graine ; 

'T is now but a sigh clout as you may see ; 
It will neither hold nor winde nor raine — 

And He have a new cloake about me." 

" It is four-and-forty yeares ago 

Since the one of us the other did ken ; 
And we have had betwixt us towe 

Of children either nine or ten. 
We have brought them up to women and men- 

In the fere of God I trowe they be ; 
And why wilt thou thyseK misken — 

Man, take thy old cloake about thee." 

" Bell, my wife, why dost thou floute ? 
Now is now, and then was then ; 



A CONTENTED MIND. 15 

Seeke now all the world throughout, 

Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen ; 

They are clad in blacke, greene, yellowe, or gray, 
So far above their own degree — 

Once in my life lie do as they, 

For He have a new cloake about me." 

" King Stephen was a worthy peere — 

His breeches cost him but a crowne ; 
He held them sixpence all too deere. 

Therefore he called the tailor lowne. 
He was a wight of high renowne, 

And thou'se but of a low degree — 
It 's pride that puts this countrye downe ; 

Man, take thy old cloake about thee." 

Bell, my wife, she loves not strife, 

Yet she will lead me if she can ; 
And oft to live a quiet life 

I 'm forced to yield though I be good-man. 
It 's not for a man with a woman to threepe, 

Unless he first give o'er the plea; 
As we began sae will we leave. 

And He take my old cloake about me. 

Anonymous. 



I WEIGH not fortune's frown or smile ; 

I joy not much in earthly joys ; 
I seek not state, I seek not style ; 

I am not fond of fancy's toys. 
I rest so pleased with what I have, 
I wish no more, no more I crave. 

I quake not at the thunder's crack ; 
I tremble not at noise of war: 



1 6 SIXGLE FAMO US F OEMS. 

I SATOund not at the news of wrack, 

I shrink not at a blazing star ; 
I fear not loss, I hope not gain ; 
I envy none, I none disdain. 

I see ambition never pleased ; 

I see some Tantals starved in store ; 
I see gold's dropsy seldom eased ; 

I see even Midas gape for more ; 
I neither want, nor yet abound — 
Enough 's a feast, content is crowned. 

I feign not friendship where I hate ; 

I fawn not on the great (in show) ; 
I prize, I praise a mean estate. 

Neither too lofty nor too low : 
This, this is all my choice, my cheer — 
A mind content, a conscience clear. 

Joshua Sylvester. 

Hobe me Uittle, Eobe me Hong* 

Love me little, love me long ! 
Is the burden of my song : 
Love that is too hot and strong 

"Burneth soon to wast€. 
Still I would not have thee cold — 
Not too backward, nor too bold ; 
Love that lasteth till 't is old 

Fadeth not in haste. 
Love me little, love me long ! 
Is the burden of my song. 

If thou lovest me too much, 
'T will not prove as true a touch; 
Love me little more than such, — 
For I fear the end. 



LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. 17 

I 'm with little well content, 
And a little from thee sent 
Is enough, with true intent 
To be steadfast, friend. 

Say thou lovest me, while thou live 
I to thee my love will give, 
!N"ever dreaming to deceive 

While that life endures ; 
Nay, and after death, in sooth, 
I to thee will keep my truth, 
As now when in my May of youth : 

This my love assures. 

Constant love is moderate ever, 
And it will through life persever ; 
Grive me that with true endeavor, — 

I will it restore. 
A suit of durance let it be, 
For all weathers, — that for me, — 
For the land or for the sea : 

Lasting evermore. 

Winter's cold or summer's heat. 
Autumn's tempests on it beat; 
It can never know defeat, 

Never can rebel ; (;; \ 

Such the love that I would gain, ^(s^ 

Such the love, I tell thee plain, 
Thou must give, or woo in vain: 

So to thee — farewell I C^"*^^ 

Anonymous. iOS, 

r ^' 

a ^ 



■^ 






18 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS 

I CAN not eat but little meat — 

My stomach is not good ; 
But sure, I think that I can drink 

With him that wears a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care ; 

I am nothing a-cold — 
I stuflf my skin so full within 

Of jolly good ale and old. 
BacJc and side go hare^ go hare; 

Both foot and hand go cold ; 
Butj helly, God send thee good ale enough. 

Whether it he new or old ! 

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, 

And a crab laid in the fire ; 
A little bread shall do me stead — 

Much bread I not desire. 
Ko frost or snow, nor wind, I trow, 

Can hurt me if I wold — 
I am so wrapt, and thorowly lapt 

Of jolly good ale and old. 
Bach and side go hare, go hare ; 

Both foot and hand go cold ; 
But, helly, God send thee good ale enough, 

Whether it he new or old ! 

And Tyb, my wife, that as her life 

Loveth well good ale to seek, 
Full oft drinks she, till you may see 

The tears run down her cheek ; 
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl, 

Even as a malt-worm should ; 
And saith, " Sweetheart, I took my part 

Of this jolly good ale and old." 



EXEqUT. 19 

Back and side go hare, go hare ; 

Both foot and liand go cold ; 
But, helly, God send thee good ale enough, 

Whether if he new or old ! 

Now let them drink till they nod and wink, 

Even as good fellows should do ; 
They shall not miss to have the bhss 

Grood ale doth bring men to ; 
And all poor souls that have scoured bowls, 

Or have them lustily trowled, 
God save the lives of them and their wives, 

Whether they be young or old ! 
Bach and side go hare, go hare ; 

Both foot and hand go cold ; 
But, helly, God send thee good ale enough. 

Whether it he new or old ! 

John Still. 



Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, 

Instead of dirges, this complaint ; 

And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse 

Receive a strew of weeping verse 

From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see 

Quite melted into tears for thee. 

Dear loss ! since thy untimely fate. 

My task hath been to meditate 

On thee, on thee ; thou art the book, 

The library whereon I look, 

Thou almost blind ; for thee (loved clay) 

I languish out, not live, the day. 

Using no other exercise 

But what I practice with mine eyes, 



2 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. 

By which wet glasses I find out 
How lazily Time creeps about 
To one that mourns ; this, only this, 
My exercise and business is : 
So I compute the weary hours 
With sighs dissolved into showers. 

Nor wonder if my time go thus 
Backward and most preposterous ; 
Thou hast benighted me ; thy set 
This eve of blackness did beget, 
Who wast my day (though overcast 
Before thou hast thy noontide passed). 
And I remember must in tears 
Thou scarce hadst seen so many years 
As day tells hours : by thy clear sun 
My love and fortune first did run : 

But thou wilt never more appear 
Folded within my hemisphere, 
Since both thy light and motion 
Like a fled star is fallen and gone. 
And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish 
The earth now interposed is, 
Which such a strange eclipse doth make 
As ne'er was read in almanac. 

I could allow thee for a time 
To darken me and my sad clime : 
Were it a month, or year, or ten, 
I would thy exile live till then. 
And all that space my mirth adjourn. 
So thou wouldst promise to return, 
And, putting off thy ashy shroud. 
At length disperse this sable cloud ! 

But woe is me ! the longest date 
Too narrow is to calculate 



EXEqUT. 21 

These empty hopes : never shall I 
Be so much blessed as to descry 
A glimpse of thee, till that day come 
Which shall the earth to cinders doom, 
And a fierce fever must calcine 
The body of this world like thine, 
(My httle world!) that fit of fire 
Once off, our bodies shall aspire 
To our souls' bliss : then we shall rise, 
And view ourselves with clearer eyes 
In that calm region where no night 
Can hide us from each other's sight. 

Meantime thou hast her, Jilarth : much good 

May my harm do thee 1 Since it stood 

With Heaven's will I might not call 

Her longer mine, I give thee all 

My short-lived right and interest 

In her whom living I loved best; 

With a most free and bounteous grief 

I give thee what I could not keep. 

Be kind to her, and, prithee, look 

Thou write into thy doomsday book 

Each parcel of this Rarity 

Which in thy casket shrined doth lie. 

See that thou make thy reckoning straight, 

And yield her back again by weight : 

Por thou must audit on thy trust 

Each grain and atom of this trust. 

As thou wilt answer Him that lent. 

Not gave thee, my dear monument. 

So, close the ground, and 'bout her shade 

Black curtains draw : my bride is laid. 

Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed 
Never to be disquieted I 
2* 



2 2 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. 

My last good-night ! Thou wilt not wake 

Till I thy fate shall overtake : 

Till age or grief, or sickness must 

Marry my body to that dust 

It so much loves, and fill the room 

My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. 

Stay for me there : I will not fail 

To meet thee in that hollow vale. 

And think not much of my delay ; 

I am already on the way, 

And follow thee with all the speed 

Desire can make, or sorrows breed. 

Each minute is a short degree. 

And every hour a step toward thee. 

At night when I betake to rest, 

N'ext morn I rise nearer my west 

Of life, almost by eight hours' sail, 

Than when Sleep breathed his drowsy gale. 

Thus from the sun my bottom steers. 

And my day's compass downward bears ; 

'Not labor I to stem the tide 

Through which to thee I swiftly glide. 

'T is true, with shame and grief I yield; 
Thou, like the van, first took'st the field, 
And gotten hast the victory, 
In thus adventuring to die 
Before me, whose more years might crave 
A just precedence in the grave. 
. But hark ! my pulse, like a soft drum. 
Beats my approach, tells thee I come ; 
And slow how e'er my marches be, 
I shall at last sit down by thee. 

The thought of this bids me go on. 
And wait my dissolution 
With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive 
The crime) I am content to live. 



TEE ANGLER'S WISE. 23 

Divided, with but half a heart, 
Till we shall meet and never part. 

.Q ' / Henry King. 






^^^ i^y- 



I IN these flowery meads would be, 

These crystal streams should solace me ; 

To whose harmonious bubbling noise 

I, Avith my angle, would rejoice, 
Sit here, and see the turtle-dove 
Court his chaste mate to acts of love ; 

Or, on that bank, feel the west wind 
Breathe health and plenty ; please my mind, 
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, 
And then washed off by April showers ; 
Here, hear my kenna sing a song : 
There, see a blackbird feed her young. 

Or a laverock build her nest ; 

Here, give my weary spirits rest. 

And raise my low-pitched thoughts above 

Earth, or what poor mortals love. 

Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise 

Of princes' courts, I would rejoice ; 

Or, with my Bryan and a book. 

Loiter long days near Shawf ord brook ; 

There sit by him, and eat my meat ; 

There see the sun both rise and set ; 

There bid good-morning to next day ; 

There meditate my time away; 
And angle on ; and beg to have 
A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 

IzAAK Walton. 



24 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. 

The glories of our birth and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
There is no armor against fate — 

Death lays his icj hands on kings ; - 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield — 
They tame but one another still ; 
Early or late 
They stoop to fate. 
And must give up their murmuring breath, 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow — 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
Upon death's purple altar, now. 

See where the victor victim bleeds ! 
All heads must come 
To the cold tomb — 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. 

James Shirley. 



FROM A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING. 

The maid, and thereby hangs a tale, 
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale 
Could ever yet produce : 



TEE BRIBE. 25 

No grape that 's kindly ripe could be 
So round, so plump, so soft as she, 
JSTor half so full of juice. 

Her finger was so small, the ring 

Would not stay on which they did bring — 

It was too wide a peck ; 
And, to say truth — for out it must — 
It looked like the great collar — just — 

About our young colt's neck. 

Her feet beneath her petticoat. 
Like little mice, stole in and out, 

As if they feared the light ; 
But 0, she dances such a way ! 
'No sun upon an Easter-day 

Is half so fine a sight. 

Her cheeks so rare a white was on, 
No daisy makes comparison ; 

Who sees them is undone ; 
For streaks of red were mingled there, 
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear. 

The side that 's next the sun. 

Her lips were red ; and one was thin. 
Compared to that was next her chin. 

Some bee had stung it newly ; 
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, 
I durst no more upon them gaze, 

Than on the sun in July. 

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, 
Thou 'dst swear her teeth her words did break, 

That they might passage get ; 
But she so handled still the matter. 
They came as good as ours, or better. 

And are not spent a whit. 

Sir John Suckling. 



2 6 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS 

ge (gentlemen cf (KnglantJ* 

Ye gentlemen of England 

That live at home at ease, 
Ah ! little do you thmk upon 

The dangers of the seas. 
Grive ear unto the marmers, 

And they will plainly show 
All the cares and the fears 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

If enemies oppose us 

When England is at war 
.With any foreign nation, 

We fear not wound or sca^ ; 
Our roaring guns shall teach 'em 

Our valor for to know. 
Whilst they reel on the keel, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

Then courage, all brave mariners, 
And never be dismay'd; 
/ While we have bold adventurers, 
We ne'er shall want a trade : 
Our merchants will employ us 

To fetch th. 
Then be bold- 

When the stormy winds do blow. 

Martyn Parker. 



Song, 

Love still has something of the sea, 
From whence his mother rose ; 

No time his slaves from doubt can free, 
Nor give their thoughts repose. 



MT DEAR AND ONLY LOVE. 



They are becalmed in clearest days, 

And in rough weather tossed ; 
They wither under cold delays, 

Or are in tempests lost. 

One while they seem to touch the port, 

Then straight into the main 
Some angry wind, in cruel sport, 

The vessel drives again. 

At iirst disdain and pride they fear, 

Which if they chance to 'scape. 
Rivals and falsehood soon appear, 

In a more cruel shape. 

By such degrees to joy they come. 

And are so long withstood ; 
So slowly they receive the sun, 

It hardly does them good. 

'T is cruel to prolong a pain ; 

And to defer a joy, 
Believe me, gentle Celemene, 

Offends the winged boy. 

An hundred thousand oaths your fears. 

Perhaps, would not remove ; 
And if I gazed a thousand years, 

I could not deeper love. 

Sir Charles Sedley. 



i^B IBear antJ (©nig Ucbe, 

PART FIRST. 

My dear and only love, I pray. 

This noble world of thee 
Be governed by no other sway 

But purest monarchic. 



28 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

For if confusion have a part, 
Which virtuous souls abhore, 

And hold a synod in thy heart, 
I '11 never love thee more. 

Like Alexander I v^ill reign, 

And I will reign alone, 
My thoughts shall evermore disdain 

A rival on my throne. 
He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small, 
That puts it not unto the touch. 

To v^^in or lose it all. 

But I must rule and govern still 

And always give the law. 
And have each subject at my will. 

And all to stand in awe. 
But 'gainst my battery if I find 

Thou shun'st the prize so sore 
As that thou set'st me up a blind, 

I '11 never love thee more. 

If in the empire of thy heart, 

Where I should solely be. 
Another do pretend a part. 

And dares to vie with me ; 
Or if committees thou erect, 

And go on such a score, 
I '11 sing and laugh at thy neglect, 

And never love thee more. 

But if thou wilt be constant then, 
And faithful of thy word, 

I '11 make thee glorious by my pen. 
And famous by my sword. 

I '11 serve thee in such noble ways 
Was never heard before ; 



MY DEAR AND ONLY LOVE, 29 

I '11 crown and deck tliee all with bays, 
And love thee evermore. 

PART SECOND. 

My dear and only love, take heed, 

Lest thou thyself expose, 
And let all longing lovers feed. 

Upon such looks as those. 
A marble wall then build about, 

Beset without a door ; 
But if thou let thy heart fly out, 

I '11 never love thee more. 

Let not their oaths, like volleys shot. 

Make any breach at all ; 
ISTor smoothness of their language plot 

Which Avay to scale the wall ; 
Nor balls of wild-fire love consume 

The shrine which I adore ; 
For if such smoke about thee fume, 

I '11 never love thee more. 

I think thy virtues be too strong 

To suffer by surprise ; 
Those victualed by my love so long. 

The siege at length must rise, 
And leave thee ruled in that health 

And state thou wast before ; 
But if thou turn a commonwealth, 

I '11 never love thee more. 

Or if by fraud, or by consent, ' 

Thy heart to mine come, 
I '11 sound no trumpet as I wont, 

Nor march by tuck of drum ; 
But hold my arms, like ensigns, up. 

Thy falsehood to deplore. 



30 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

And bitterly will sigli and weep, 
And never love thee more. 

I '11 do with thee as Nero did 

When Rome was set on fire, 
Not only all rehef forbid, 

But to a hill retire, 
And scorn to shed a tear to see 

Thy spirit grown so poor ; 
But smiling sing, until I die, 

I '11 never love thee more. 

Yet, for the love I bare thee once. 

Lest that thy name should die, 
A monument of marble-stone 

The truth shall testifie ; 
That every pilgrim passing by 

May pity and deplore 
My case, and read the reason why 

I can love thee no more. 

The golden laws of love shall be 

Upon this pillar hung, — 
A simple heart, a single eye, 

A true and constant tongue ; 
Let no man for more love pretend 

Than he has hearts in store ; 
True love begun shall never end ; 

Love one and love no more. 

Then shall thy heart be set by mine, 

But in far different case ; 
Tor mine was true, so was not thine, 

But lookt like Janus' face. 
Tor as the waves with every wind, 

So sail'st thou every shore. 
And leav'st my constant heart behind,- 

How can I love thee more ? 



MY DEAR AND ONLY LOVE. 31 

My heart shall with the sun be fixed 

For constancy most strange, 
And thine shall with the moon be mixed, 

Delighting ay in change. 
Thy beauty shined at first more bright, 

And woe is me therefore. 
That ever I found thy love so light 

I could love thee no more ! 

The misty mountains, smoking lakes, 

The rocks' resounding echo. 
The whistling wind that murmur makes, 

Shall with me sing hey ho ! 
The tossing seas, the tumbling boats, 

Tears dropping from each shore, 
Shall tune with me their turtle notes — 

I '11 never love thee more. 

As doth the turtle, chaste and true, 

Her fellow's death regrete, 
And daily mourns for his adieu, 

And ne'er renews her mate ; 
So, though thy faith was never fast. 

Which grieves me wondrous sore, 
Yet I shall live in love so chaste, 

That I shall love no more. 

And when all gallants ride about 

These monuments to view. 
Whereon is written, in and out. 

Thou traitorous and untrue ; 
Then in a passion they shall pause, 

And thus say, sighing sore, 
"Alas ! he had too just a cause 

ISTever to love thee more." 

And when that tracing goddess Fame 
From east to west shall flee. 



32 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

She shall record it, to thy shame, 

How thou hast loved me ; 
And how in odds our love was such 

As few have been before ; 
Thou loved too many, and I too much, 

So I can love no more. 

James Grah.ui, Marquis of Montrosk 



" Sing, heavenly Muse ! 

TMngs unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme," 
A sMllIng, breeches, and chimeras dire. 

Happy the man, who, void of cares and strife, 
In silken or in leather purse retains 
A Splendid Shilling : he nor hears with pain 
New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale ; 
But with his friends, Avhen nightly mists arise, 
To Juniper's Magpie, or Town-hall repairs : 
Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye 
Transfix'd his soul, and kindled amorous flames, 
Chloe, or Phillis, he each circling glass 
Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. 
Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, 
Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. 
But I, whom griping penury surrounds. 
And Hunger, sure attendant upon Want, 
With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, 
(Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain: 
Then solitary walk, or doze at home 
In garret vile, and with a warming puff 
Regale chill' d fingers : or from tube as black 
As winter-chimney, or well-pohsh'd jet. 
Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent: " 
Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size. 
Smokes Cambro-Briton (vers'd in pedigree, 



THE SPLENDID SHILLING. 3? 

Sprung from Cadwallador and Arthur, kings 

Full famous in romantic tale) when he, 

O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, 

Upon a cargo of fam'd Cestrian cheese. 

High over-shadowing rides, with a design 

To vend his wares, or at th' Avonian mart, 

Or Maridunum, or the ancient town 

Yclep'd Brechinia, or where Yaga's stream 

Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil! 

Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie 

"With Massic, Setin, or renown'd Falern. 

Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, 
With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, 
Horrible monster ! hated by gods and men, 
To my aerial citadel ascends, 
With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, 
With hideous accent thrice he calls ; I know 
The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. 
What should I do ? or whither turn ? Amaz'd, 
Confounded, to the dark recess I fly 
Of wood-hole ; straight my bristling hairs erect 
Through sudden fear ; a chilly sweat bedews 
My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to teU !) 
My tongue forgets her faculty of speech ; 
So horrible he seems ! His faded brow, 
Intrench' d with many a frown, and conic beard, 
And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints, 
Disastrous acts f orbode ; in his right hand 
Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, 
With characters and figures dire inscrib'd, 
G-rievous to mortal eyes; (ye gods, avert 
Such plagues from righteous men !) Behind him stalks 
Another monster, not unlike himself. 
Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar call'd 
A catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods, 
With force incredible, and magic charms, 
First have endued : if he his ample palm 
3* 



34 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay 
Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch 
Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont,) 
To some enchanted castle is convey'd, 
Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, 
In durance strict detain him, till, in form 
Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. 

Beware, ye debtors ! when ye walk, beware, 
Be circumspect ; oft with insidious ken 
The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft 
Lies perdu in a nook or gloomy cave, 
Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch 
With his unhallowed touch. So, (poets sing) 
G-rimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn 
An everlasting foe, with watchful eye 
Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, 
Portending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice 
Sure ruin. So her disembowell'd web 
Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads 
Obvious to vagrant flies : she secret stands 
Within her woven cell : the humming prey, 
Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils 
Inextricable, nor will aught avail 
Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue ; 
The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, 
And butterfly, proud of expanded wings 
Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, 
Useless resistance make ; with eager strides, 
She towering flies to her expected spoils ; 
Then, Avith envenomed jaws, the vital blood 
Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave 
Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags. 

So pass my days. But when nocturnal shades 
This world envelop, and tli' inclement air 
Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts 
With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of Avood 
Me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light 



TEE SPLEXBID aHILLING. 35 

Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk 
Of lovmg friend, delights : distress' d, forlorn, 
Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, 
Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts 
My anxious mind : or sometimes mournful verse 
Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, 
Or desperate lady near a purhng stream, 
Or lover pendent on a willow tree. 
Meanwhile I labor with eternal drought, 
And restless wish, and rave ; my parched throat 
Finds no rehef, nor heavy eyes repose : 
But if a slumber haply does invade 
My weary limbs, my fancy 's still awake. 
Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream, 
Tipples imaginary pots of ale, 
In vain j awake I find the settled thirst 
Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. 
Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred, 
Nor taste the fruits that the suti's genial rays 
Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach, 
Nor walnut in rough-furrow' d coat secure, 
Nor medlar, fruit delicious in decay ; 
Afflictions great ! yet greater still remain : 
My galligaskins, that have long withstood 
The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts, 
By time subdued (what will not time subdue !) 
An horrid chasm disclos'd with orifice 
Wide, discontinuous ; at which the winds 
Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force 
Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves. 
Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts. 
Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, 
Long sail'd secure, or through th' JEgean deep. 
Or the Ionian, till cruising near 
The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush 
On Scylla, or Charybdis (dangerous rocks !) 
She strikes rebounding; whence the shatter'd oak, 



36 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

So fierce a shock unable to withstand, 

Admits the sea : in at the gaping side 

The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage 

Resistless, overwhelming ; horrors seize 

The mariners ; Death in their eyes appears. 

They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray 

(Yain eJBTorts !) still the battering waves rush in, 

Implacable, till, delug'd by the foam. 

The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss. 

John Philips. 



l^onnie (George CO^ampfielL 

Hie upon Hielands, 

And low upon Tay, 
Bonnie George Campbell 

Rade out on a day. 
Saddled and bridled 

And gallant rade he ; 
Hame cam his gude horse, 

But never cam he ! 



Out cam his auld mither, 

G-reeting fu' sair ; 
And out cam his bonnie bride, 

Rivin' her hair. 
Saddled and bridled 

And booted rade he ; 
Toom hame cam the saddle, 

But never cam he ! 



' My meadow lies green. 
And my corn is unshorn ; 

My barn is to big. 

And my baby's unborn." 



TEE HERMIT. 37 

Saddled and bridled 

And booted rade he; 
Toom hame cam the saddle, 

But never cam he ! 

Anonymous. 

C^e Jgemi't 

Far in a wild, unknown to pubhc view. 
From youth to age a reverend hermit grew ; 
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell. 
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well : 
Remote from men, with Grod he pass'd the days, 
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. 

A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
Seem'd Heaven itself, till one suggestion rose ; 
That Vice should triumph, Yirtue, Vice obey, 
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway : 
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, 
And all the tenor of his soul is lost : 
So when a smooth expanse receives imprest 
Calm Kature's image on its watery breast, 
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, 
And skies beneath with answering colors glow : 
But if a stone the gentle sea divide, 
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side. 
And glimmering fragments of a broken Sun, 
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. 

To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, 
To find if books, or swains, report it right, 
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew, 
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew) 
He quits his cell ; the pilgrim-stafi" he bore. 
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before ; 
Then with the Sun a rising journey went, 
Sedate to think, and watching each event. 

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, 

4 



38 SIXGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; 
But when the southern Sun had warm'd the day, 
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; 
His raiment decent, his complexion fair. 
And soft in graceful ringlets wav'd his hair. 
Then near approaching, "Father, hail! " he cried, 
"And hail, my son," the reverend she rephed; 
Words follow'd words, from question answer flow'd, 
And talk of various kind deceiv'd the road; 
Tm each with other pleas'd, and loath to part, 
While in their age they differ, join in heart. 
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, 
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 

Now sunk the Sun : the closing hour of day 
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray; 
Xature in sileuce bid the world repose ; 
When near the road a stately palace rose : 
There by the ^loon through ranks of trees they pass, 
Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides of grass. 
It chanced the noble master of the dome 
Still made his house the wandering stranger's home : 
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 
Prov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease. 
The pair arrive : the hv'ried servants wait ; 
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate. 
The table groans with costly piles of food, 
And all is more than hospitably good. 
Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown, 
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. 

At length 't is morn, and at the dawn of day. 
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play : 
Presh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, 
And shake the neighboring wood to banish sleep. 
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call : 
An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall; 
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet grac'd. 
Which the kind master forc'd the guests to taste. 



THE HEBMIT. 39 

Then, pleas'd and thankful, from the porch they go ; 
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe : 
His cup was vanish'd ; for in secret guise 
The younger guest purloin'd the glittering prize. 

As one who spies a serpent in his way, 
Griistening and basking in the summer ray, 
Disorder' d stops to shun the danger near, 
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear. 
So seem'd the sire ; when far upon the road, 
The shining spoil his wily partner show'd. 
He stop'd with silence, walk'd with trembling heart. 
And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to part : 
Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard. 
That generous actions meet a base reward. 

While thus they pass, the Sun his glory shrouds, 
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds ; 
A sound in air presag'd approaching rain. 
And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
Warn'd by the signs, the wandering pair retreat. 
To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat. 
'T was built with turrets on a rising ground. 
And strong, and large, and unimprov'd around; 
Its owner's temper, timorous and severe, 
Unkind and griping, caus'd a desert there. 

As near the miser's heavy doors they drew. 
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 
The nimble lightning mix'd with showers began. 
And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders ran. 
Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, 
Driven by the wind, and batter' d by the rain. 
At length some pity warm'd the master's breast, 
('T was then his threshold first received a guest) ; 
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care. 
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair ; 
One frugal fagot lights the naked walls, 
And Nature's fervor through their limbs recalls : 
Bread of the coarsest sort, with eao-er wine, 



4 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

(Each hardly granted) serv'd them both to dine ; 
And when the tempest first appeared to cease, 
A ready warning bid them part in peace. 

With still remark the pondering hermit view'd, 
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ; 
"And why should such," within himself he cried, 
"Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside ? " 
But what new marks of Avonder soon take place, 
In every settling feature of his face ; 
When from his vest the young companion bore 
That cup, the generous landlord own'd before, 
And paid profusely with the precious bowl 
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul. 

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ! 
The Sun emerging opes an azure sky ; 
A fresher green the smelling leaves display, 
And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day : 
The weather courts them from the poor retreat. 
And the glad master bolts the wary gate. 

While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought 
With all the travail of uncertain thought ; 
His partner's acts without their cause appear, 
'T was there a vice, and seem'd a madness here: 
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes. 
Lost and confounded with the various shows. 

Kow Night's dim shades again involve the sky, 
Again the wanderers want a place to lie, 
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. 
The soil improv'd around, the mansion neat, 
And neither poorly low, nor idly great : 
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind, 
Content, and not to praise, but virtue kind. 

Hither the walkers turn with weary feet. 
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet : 
Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise, 
The courteous master hears, and thus replies : 

" Without a vain, without a grudging heart, 



THE HERMIT. 4 1 

To him who gives us all, I yield a part; 

From him you come, for him accept it here, 

A frank and sober, more than costly cheer." 

He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, 

Then talk of virtue till the time of bed, 

When the grave household round his hall repair, 

Warn'd by a beU, and close the hours with prayer. 

At length the world, renew' d by calm repose, 
Was strong for toil, the dappled Morn arose ; 
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept 
Near the clos'd cradle where an infant slept. 
And writh'd his neck : the landlord's little pride, 
strange return ! grew black, and gasp'd, and died. 
Horror of horrors ! what ! his only son ! 
How look'd our hermit when the fact was done ; 
Not Hell, though Hell's black jaAvs in sunder part, 
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. 

Confus'd, and struck with silence at the deed, 
He flies, but trembling, fails to fly with speed. 
His steps the youth pursues ; the country lay 
Perplex'd with roads, a servant show'd the way : 
A river cross'd the path ; the passage o'er 
Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ; 
Long arms of oaks an open bridge supphed, 
And deep the waves beneath them bending glide. 
The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin, 
Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in: 
Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head. 
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. 

Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes, 
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, 
' Detested wretch ! " — But scarce his speech began. 
When the strange partner seem'd no longer man : 
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; 
His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet; 
Pair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; 
Celestial odors breathe through purpled air ; 



42 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

And wings, whose colors giitter'd on the day, 
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. 
The form ethereal burst upon his sight, 
And moved in all the majesty of light. 

Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew. 
Sudden he gaz'd, and Avist not what to do; 
Surprise in secret chains his words suspends, 
And in a calm his setthng temper ends. 
But silence here the beauteous angel broke 
(The voice of music ravish' d as he spoke). 

" Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, 
In sweet memorial rise before the throne : 
These charms success in our bright region find 
And force an angel down, to calm thy mind ; 
For this, commissioned, I forsook the sky, 
Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow-servant I. 

" Then know the trutli of government divine, 
And let these scruples be no longer thine. 

" The Maker justly claims that world he made, 
In this the right of Providence is laid ; 
Its sacred majesty through all depends 
On using second means to work his ends : 
'T is thus, withdrawn in state from human eye. 
The power exerts his attributes on high, 
Your actions uses, nor controls your will, 
And bids the doubting sons of i.nen be still. 

" What strange events can strike with more surprise, 
Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes ? 
Yet, taught by these, confess th' Almighty just. 
And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust! 

" The great, vain man, who far'd on costly food, 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; 
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine. 
And forc'd his guests to morning draughts of wine, 
Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost. 
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 
• " The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door 



THE HERMIT. 43 

Ne'er mov'd in duty to the wandering poor; 
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
Tliat Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, 
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, 
"With heaping coals of fire upon his head ; 
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
And loose from dross the silver runs below. 

'' Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, 
But now the child half -weaned his heart from G-od ; 
(Child of his age) for him he liv'd in pain, 
And measured back his steps to Earth again. 
To what excesses had his dotage run ? 
But Grod, to save the father, took the son. 
To all but thee, in fits he seem'd to go, 
(And 't was my ministry to deal the blow,) 
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust. 
Now owns in tears the punishment was just. 

"But now had all his fortune felt a wrack, 
Had that false servant sped in safety back ; 
This night his treasur'd heaps he meant to steal. 
And what a fund of charity would fail ! 
Thus Heaven instructs thy mind : this trial o'er. 
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." 

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew. 
The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew. 
Thus look'd Elisha when, to mount on high, 
His master took the chariot of the sky ; 
The fiery pomp ascending left to view ; 
The prophet gazed, and wisli'd to follow too. 

The bending hermit here a praj^er begun, 
^'' Lord ! as in Heaven^ on Earth thy will he done^ 
Then gladly turning sought his ancient place. 
And passed a life of piety and peace. 

Thomas Parnell. 



44 SnsGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

(Bn tje ^3rc0pect of i^lanti'ng Erts anh Ueammg 
in Emerica. 

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime 

Barren of every glorious theme, 
In distant lands now waits a better time, 

Producing subjects worthy fame ; 

In happy chmes, where from the genial sun 
And virgin earth such scenes ensue, 

The force of art by nature seems outdone, 
And fancied beauties by the true ; 

In happy climes the seat of innocence. 
Where nature guides and virtue rules, 

Where men shaU not impose, for truth and sense, 
The pedantry of courts and schools. 

There shall be sung another golden age, 

The rise of empire and of arts. 
The good and great uprising epic rage, 

The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay ; 

Such as she bred when fresh and young. 
When heavenly flame did animate her clay. 

By future poets shaU be sung. 

Westward the course of empire takes its way ; 

The first four acts already past. 
The fifth shall close the drama with the day ; 

Time's noblest offspring is the last. 

Geoege Berkeley. 



Sallg mour Elleg, 

Of aU the girls that are so smart. 
There 's none like Pretty Sally ; 



SALLY IN OJJR ALLEY. 45 

She is the darling of my heart, 

And Uves in our alley. 
There 's ne'er a lady in the land 

That 's half so sweet as Sally; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And lives in our alley. 

Her father he makes cabbage-nets, 

And through the streets does cry them ; 

Her mother she sells laces long- 
To such as please to buy them : 

But sure such folk can have no part 
In such a girl as Sally ; 

She is the darling of my heart, 
And lives in our alley. 

When she is by, I leave my work, 

I love her so sincerely ; 
My master comes, like any Turk, 

And bangs me most severely : 
But let him bang, long as he will, 

I '11 bear it all for Sally; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And lives in our alley. 

Of all the days are in the Aveek, 

I dearly love but one day. 
And that 's the day that comes betwixt 

A Saturday and Monday ; 
For then I 'm dressed, all in my best, 

To walk abroad with Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And lives in our alley. 

My master carries me to church, 

And often am I blamed. 
Because I leave him in the lurch, 

Soon as the text is named : 
4* 



4 6 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

I leave the church m sermon time, 

And slmk away to Sally ; 
She is the darhng of my heart, 

And lives in om- alley. 

When Christmas comes about again, 

then I shaU have money ; 

I '11 hoard it up and, box and all, 

1 '11 give it to my honey ; 

Oh v^-ould it were ten thousand pounds, 

I 'd give it all to Sally ; 
For she 's the darling of my heart, 

And hves in our alley. 

My master, and the neighbors all. 

Make game of me and SaUy, 
And but for her I 'd better be 

A slave, and row a galley : 
But when my seven long years are out, 

then I '11 marry SaUy, 
And then how happily we '11 hve — 

But not in our alley. 

Henry Carey. 

Silent nymph, with curious eye, 
Who the purple evening he 
On the mountain's lonely van. 
Beyond the noise of busy man ; 
Painting fair the form of things, 
• While the yellow linnet sings ; 
Or the tuneful nightingale 
Charms the forest with her tale ; — 
Come, with all thy various dues. 
Come and aid thy sister Muse ; 
Now, while Phoebus riding high, 
Gives lustre to the land and sky I 



GRONGAB niLL. 47 

Grongar Hill invites my song, 

Draw the landscape bright and strong ; 

G-rongar, in whose mossy cells 

Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; 

Grongar, in whose silent shade, 

For the modest Muses made, 

So oft I have, the evening still, 

At the fountain of a rill, 

Sate upon a flowery bed, 

With my hand beneath my head ; 

While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood, 

Over mead and over wood. 

From house to house, from hill to hill, 

Till Contemplation had her fill. 

About his chequer'd sides I wind, 
And leave his brooks and meads behind, 
And groves and grottoes where I lay. 
And vistas shooting beams of day ; 
Wide and wider spreads the vale. 
As circles on a smooth canal ; 
The mountains round, unhappy fate! 
Sooner or later, of all height. 
Withdraw their summits from the skies, 
And lessen as the others rise : 
Still the prospect wider spreads. 
Adds a thousand woods and meads; 
Still it widens, widens still. 
And sinks the newly risen hill. 

ISTow, I gain the mountain's brow, 
What a landscape hes below ! 
No clouds, no vapors intervene; 
But the gay, the open scene 
Does the face of ISTature show. 
In all the hues of Heaven's bow ! 
And, swelUng to embrace the light, 
Spreads around beneath the sight. 

Old castles on the cliffs arise, 



4 8 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

Proudly towering in the skies ! 
Eusliing from the woods, the spires 
Seem from hence ascending fires! 
Half his beams Apollo sheds 
On the yellow mountain-heads ! 
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, 
And glitters on the broken rocks ! 

Below me trees unnumber'd rise, 
Beautiful in various dyes : 
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, 
The yellow beach, the sable yew, 
The slender fir that taper grows, 
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs, 
And beyond the purple grove, 
Haunt of Phylhs, queen of love! 
Gaudy as the opening dawn. 
Lies a long and level lawn, 
On which a dark hill, steep and high, 
Holds and charms the wandering eye ! 
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood. 
His sides are cloth' d with waving wood. 
And ancient toAvers crown his brow. 
That cast an awful look below ; 
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, 
And with her arms fi'om f alhng keeps ; 
So both a safety from the wind 
In mutual dependence find. 
'T is now the raven's bleak abode : 
'T is now the apartment of the toad ; 
And there the fox securely feeds ; 
And there the poisonous adder breeds, 
Conceal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds ; 
While, ever and anon, there falls 
Huge heaps of hoary moulder' d walls. 
Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low, 
And level lays the lofty brow. 
Has seen this broken pile complete, 



OBONOAB HILL. 49 

Big with the vanity of state ; 
But transient is the smile of Fate I 
A httle rule, a little sway, 
A sunbeam in a winter's day, 
Is all the proud and mighty have 
Between the cradle and the grave. 

And see the rivers how they run, 
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, 
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, 
Wave succeeding wave, they go 
A various journey to the deep. 
Like human hfe, to endless sleep 1 
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought. 
To instruct our wandering thought; 
Thus she dresses green and gay, 
To disperse our cares away. 

Ever charming, ever new, 
When will the landscape tire the view I 
The fountain's fall, the river's flow. 
The woody valleys, warm and low ; 
The windy summit, wild and high. 
Roughly rushing on the sky ! 
The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tower, 
The naked rock, the shady bower ; 
The town and village, dome and farm, 
Each gives each a double charm, 
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm. 

See on the mountain's southern side 
Where the prospect opens wide, 
Where the evening gilds the tide ; 
How close and small the hedges lie ! 
What streaks of meadows cross the eye I 
A step methinks may pass the stream. 
So little distant dangers seem ; 
So we mistake the Future's face, 
Ey'd through Hope's deluding glass; 
As yon summit soft and fair. 



50 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. 

Clad "in colors of the air, 
Which to those who journey near, 
Barren, brown, and rough appear, 
Still we tread the same coarse way, 
The present 's still a cloudy day. 

may I with myself agree, 
And never covet what I see ; 
Content me with an humble shade. 
My passions tam'd, my wishes laid; 
For, while our wishes wildly roll, 
We banish quiet from the soul : 
'T is thus the busy beat the air, 
And misers gather wealth and care. 

ISTow, ev'n now, my joys run high. 
As on the mountain-turf I he ; 
While the wanton Zephyr sings. 
And in the vale perfumes his wings ; 
While the waters murmur deep ; 
Wliile the shepherd charms his sheep ; 
While the birds unbounded fly, 
And with music fill the sky, 
Now, ev'n now, my joys run high. 

Be full, ye courts ; be great who will, 
Search for Peace with all your skill: 
Open wide the lofty door. 
Seek her on the marble floor. 
In vain you search, she is not there ; 
In vain you search the domes of Care I 
Grass and flowers Quiet treads. 
On the meads, and mountaui-heads, 
Along with Pleasure, close allied. 
Ever by each other's side ; 
And often, by the murmuring rill, 
Hears the thrush, while all is still. 
Within the groves of Grrongar Hill. 

John Dyer. 



A SOLILOQUT. 51 

it Soliloqug* 

OCCASIONED BY THE CHIRPING OF A GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy insect 1 ever blest 
With a more than mortal rest, 
Kosy dews the leaves among, 
Humble joys, and gentle song ! 
Wretched poet ! ever curst 
With a life of lives the worst, 
Sad despondence, restless fears. 
Endless jealousies and tears. 

In the burning summer thou 
Warblest on the verdant bough, 
Meditating cheerful play. 
Mindless of the piercing ray ; 
Scorched in Cupid's fervors, I 
Ever weep and ever die. 

Proud to gratify thy will, 
Eeady JSTature waits thee still ; 
Balmy wines to thee she pours. 
Weeping through the dewy flowers 
Rich as those by Hebe given 
To the thirsty sons of heaven. 

Yet alas, we both agree. 
Miserable thou hke me ! 
Each, ahke, in youth rehearses 
Gi-entle strains and tender verses j 
Ever wandering far from home, 
Mindless of the days to come 
(Such as aged Winter brings 
Trembling on his icy wings), 
Both ahke at last we die ; 
Thou art starved, and so am I ! 

Walter Harte. 



52 SINGIM FAMO US POEMS. 

CJe 13rafi5 of ¥arrob), 

"Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnier bonnie bride! 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride. 
And think nae mair of the braes of Yarrow." 

""Where got ye that bonnie, bonnie bride, 
TVhere got ye that winsome marrow ? " 

" I got her where I daurna weel be seen, 
Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

" "Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, bonnie bride, 
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow ! 
Xor let thy heart lament to leave 

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow." 

" Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie bride ? 
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ? 
And why daur ye nae mair weel be seen 
Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow ? " 

"Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep- 
Lang maun she weep wi' dule and sorrow ; 
And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen 
Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

" For she has tint her lover, lover dear — 
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow ; 
And I hae slain the comehest swain 

That e'er pu'd birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

"Why runs thy stream, Yarrow, Yarrow, red? 
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow ? 
And why yon melanchoHous weeds 
Hung: on the bonnie birks of Yarrow ? 



TEE BRAES OF YARROW. 53 

" What 's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flood ? 
What 's yonder floats ? — Oh, dule and sorrow ! 
'T is he, the comely swain I slew 
Upon the dulefu' braes of Yarrow. 

''Wash, oh, wash his wounds, his wounds in tears. 
His wounds in tears o' dule and sorrow ; 
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, 
And lay him on the banks of Tarrow. 

" Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, 
Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi' sorrow ; 
And weep around, in waeful wise, 

His hapless fate on the braes of Yarrow I 

" Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield. 
The arm that wrought the deed of sorrow. 
The fatal spear that pierced his breast, 

His comely breast, on the braes of Yarrow ! 

" Did I not warn thee not to, not to love. 

And warn from fight ? But, to my sorrow, 
Too rashly bold, a stronger arm thou met'st, 
Thou met'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow. 

Sweet smells the birk ; green grows, green grows the grass ; 

Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan ; 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock ; 

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowing! 

" Flows Yarrow sweet ? As sweet, as sweet flows Tweed ; 
As green its grass; its gowan as yellow; 
As sweet smells on its braes the birk; 
The apple from its rocks as mellow ! 

" Fair was thy love ! fair, fair indeed thy love ! 
In flowery bands thou didst him fetter ; 



64 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Though he was fair, and well-beloved again, 
Than I he never loved thee better. 

" Busk ye, then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride ! 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed 
And tliink nae mair on the braes of Yarrow." 

" How can I busk a bonnie, bonnie bride ? 
How can I busk a winsome marrow ? 
How can I lo'e him on the banks of Tweed, 
That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow ? 

" Oh Yarrow fields, may never, never rain, 
Nor dew, thy tender blossoms cover ! 
For there was basely slain my love. 
My love, as he had not been a lover. 

" The boy put on his robes, his robes of green. 
His purple vest — 't was my ain sewing ; 
Ah, wretched me ! I little, little kenned 
He was, in these, to meet his ruin. 

" The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, 
Unmindful of my dule and sorrow ; 
But ere the too fa' of the night, 

He lay a corpse on the banks of Yarrow I 

''Much I rejoiced that waefu', waefu' day; 
I sang, my voice the woods returning ; 
But lang ere night the spear was flown 
That slew my love, and left me mourning. 

" What can my barbarous, barbarous father do, 
But with his cruel rage pursue me? 
My lover's blood is on thy spear — 

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me ? 



THE BRAES OF YARROW. 65 

" My happy sisters may be, may be proud ; 
With, cruel and ungentle scoffing 
May bid me seek, on Yarrow braes, 
My lover nailed in his coffin. 

" My brother Douglas may upbraid. 

And strive, with threatening words, to move me ; 
My lover's blood is on thy spear — 

How canst thou ever bid me love thee ? 

" Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love ! 
With bridal-sheets my body cover ! 
Unbar, ye bridal-maids, the door ! 
Let in the expected husband-lover ! 

" But who the expected husband, husband is ? 
His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter ! 
Ah me ! what ghastly spectre 's yon 

Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after ? 

" Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down ; 
Oh lay his cold head on my pillow ! 
Take off, take off these bridal weeds. 

And crown my careful head with willow. 

" Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved, 
Oh could my warmth to life restore thee 1 
Yet lie all night within my arms — 
'No youth lay ever there before thee ! 

" Pale, pale indeed, lovely, lovely youth! 
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, 
And lie all night within my arms, 
No youth shall ever lie there after ! " 

" Return, return, mournful, mournful bride 1 
Return, and dry thy useless sorrow ! 



56 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs ; 
He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow." 

William Hamilton. 



Ah me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn, 
To think how modest Worth neglected lies, 
While partial Fame doth with her blast adorn 
Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp disguise ; 
Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise : 
Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try 
To sound the praise of Merit, ere it dies. 
Such as I oft have chaunced to espy, 
Lost in the dreary shades of dull Obscurity. 

In every village mark'd with little spire, 
Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to Fame, 
There dwells in lowly shed, and mean attire, 
A matron old, whom we School-mistress name, 
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame ; 
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, 
Aw'd by the power of this relentless dame 
And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent. 
For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent. 

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree 
Which Learning near her httle dome did stowe 
Whilom a twig of small regard to see, 
Though now so wide its waving branches flow 
And work the simple vassals mickle woe ; 
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew. 
But their limbs shudder' d, and their pulse beat low; 
Aud as they look'd they found their horror grew, 
And shap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view. 

So have I seen (who has not, may conceive) 
A lifeless phantom near a garden plac'd ; 



THE 8GE00L-MISTRE88. 57 

So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave, 
Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast ; 
They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast ; 
Sad servitude ! such comfortless annoy 
May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste I 
Ke superstition clog his dance of joy, 
No vision empty, vain, his native bUss destroy. 

IsTear to this dome is found a patch so green. 
On which the tribe their gambols do display. 
And at the door imprisoning-board is seen. 
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray ; 
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! 
The noises intermix' d, which thence resound, 
Do Learning's little tenement betray ; 
Where sits the dame, disguis'd in look profound. 
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around. 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, 
Emblem right meet of decency does yield : 
Her apron dy'd in grain, as blue, I trow, 
As is the hare-bell that adorns the field : 
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield 
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwin'd, 
With dark distrust, and sad repentance fiU'd: 
And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd. 
And fury uncontroll'd, and chastisement unkind. 

Few but have kenn'd, in semblance meet portray' d, 
The childish faces of old Eol's train ; 
Libs, Notus, Auster : these in frowns array'd, 
How then would fare or Earth, or Sky, or Main, 
Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein ? 
And were not she rebellious breasts to quell. 
And were not she her statutes to maintain. 
The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell. 
Where comely peace of mind, and decent order dwell. 
5 



58 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown ; 
A russet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air ; 
'T was simple russet, but it was her own ; 
'T was her own country bred the flock so fair ! 
'T "was her own labor did the fleece prepare ; 
And, sooth to say, her pupils, rang'd around, 
Through pious awe, did term it passing rare ; 
Por they in gaping wonderment abound, 
And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. 

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, 
Xe pompous title did debauch her ear ; 
Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth, 
Or dame, the sole additions she did hear ; 
Yet these she challeng'd, these she held right dear : 
Ne would esteem him act as mought behove. 
Who should not honored eld with these revere : 
For never title yet so mean could prove, 
But there was eke a mind which did that title love. 

One ancient hen she took dehght to feed, 
The plodding pattern of the busy dame ; 
Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need, 
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came ! 
Such favor did her past deportment claim : 
And, if Xeglect had lavish" d on the ground 
Fragment of bread, she would collect the same. 
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound 
What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found. 

Herbs too she knew, and well of each could speak 
That in her garden sipp'd the silvery dew; 
Where no vain flower disclos'd a gaudy streak ; 
But herbs for use, and physic, not a few. 
Of gray renown, within those borders grew : 
The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, 
Fresh baum, and marigold of cheerf ill hue ; 



THE SCHOOL-MISTBESS. 59 

The lowly gill, that never dares to climb ; 
And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme. 

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung, 
That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around ; 
And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue ; 
And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's wound, 
And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posie found; 
And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom 
Shall be, erewhile, in arid bundles bound, 
To lurk amidst the labors of her loom. 
And crown her kerchiefs clean, with mickle rare perfume. 

And here trim rosemarine, that whilom crown' d 
The daintiest garden of the proudest peer ; 
Ere, driven from its envied site, it found 
A sacred shelter for its branches here ; 
Where edg'd with gold its glittering skirts appear. 
Oh wassal days ! Oh customs meet and well ! 
Ere this was banish'd from his lofty sphere : 
Simplicity then sought this humble cell, 
Nor ever would she more with thane and lordhng dwell. 

Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve, 
Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete. 
If winter 't were, she to her hearth did cleave, 
But in her garden found a summer-seat ; 
Sweet melody ! to hear her then repete 
How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, 
"While taunting foemen did a song entreat, 
All, for the nonce, untuning every string, 
Uphung their useless lyres — small heart had they to sing. 

For she was just, and friend to. virtuous lore. 
And pass'd much time in truly virtuous deed; 
And in those elfins' ears would oft deplore 
The times when Truth by Popish rage did bleed, 



60 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. 

And tortious death was true Devotion's meed ; 
And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn, 
That nould on wooden image place her creed ; 
And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn : 
Ah! dearest Lord, forefend, thilk days should e'er return. 

In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem 
By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defac'd, 
In which, when he receives his diadem^ 
Our soverign prince and hefest hege is plac'd, 
The matron sate; and some with rank she grac'd 
(The source of children's and of courtiers' pride ! ) 
Eedress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd ; 
And warn'd them not the fretful to deride, 
But love each other dear, whatever them betide. 

Eight well she knew each temper to descry ; 
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise ; 
Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high. 
And some entice with pittance small of praise, 
And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays : 
E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold, 
"While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she swaj^s : 
Forewarn' d, if little bird their pranks behold, 
'T will whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. 

Lo now with state she utters the command ! 
Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair ; 
Their books of stature small they take in hand, 
Which with pellucid horn secured are, 
To save from finger wet the letters fair : 
The work so gay that on their back is seen, 
St. George's high achievements does declare ; 
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been, 



Ah luckless he, and born beneath the beam 
Of evil star ! it irks me whilst I write : 



TEE SCE00L.MI8TRE8S. 61 

As erst the bard * by Mulla's silver stream, 
Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight, 
Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite. 
For brandishing the rod, she doth begin 
To loose the brogues, the striphng's late delight I 
And down they drop ; appears his dainty skin, 
Pair as the furry-coat of whitest ermilin. 

ruthful scene ! when from a nook obscure, 
His little sister doth his peril see : 
All playful as she sate, she grows demure ; 
She finds fuU soon her wonted spirits flee : 
She meditates a prayer to set him free : 
Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny 
(If gentle pardon could with dames agree) 
To her sad grief that swells in either eye, 
And wrings her so that all for pity she could die. 

JSTo longer can she now her shrieks command j 
And hardly she forbears, through awful fear. 
To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous hand, 
To stay harsh Justice in its mid career. 
On thee she calls, on thee her parent dear I 
(Ah ! too remote to ward the shameful blow !) 
She sees no kind domestic visage near, 
And soon a flood of tears begins to flow ; 
And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. 

But ah ! what pen his piteous phght may trace ? 

Or what device his loud laments explain ? 

The form uncouth of his disguised face ? 

The palHd hue that dyes his looks amain ? 

The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain ? 

When he, in abject wise, implores the dame, 

ISTe hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain ; 



* Spenser. 
6 



62 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Or when from high she levels well her aim, 
And, through the thatch, his cries each falling stroke pro- 
claim. 

The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay, 
Attend, and con their tasks with mickle care : 
By turns, astonied, every twig survey, 
And, from their fellow's hateful wounds, be^vare, 
Knowing, I wist, hoAV each the same may share. 
Till fear has taught them a performance meet. 
And to the well-known chest the dame repair ; 
Whence oft with sugar' d cates she doth them greet, 
And ginger-bread y-rare ; now certes, doubly sweet. 

See to their seats they hie with merry glee. 
And in beseemly order sitten there ; 
All but the wight of bum y-galled, he 
Abhorreth bench, and stool, and form, and chair ; 
(This hand in mouth y-jBix'd, that rends his hair ;) 
And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast, 
Convulsions intermitting ! does declare 
His grievous wrong ; his dame's unjust behest ; 
And scorns her offer'd love, and shuns to be caress'd. 

His face besprent with liquid cr5^stal shines, 
His blooming face that seems a purple flower, 
Which low to earth its drooping head declines, 
All smear'd and sullied by a vernal shower. 
the hard bosoms of despotic power ! 
All, all, but she, the author of his shame, 
All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour ; 
Yet hence the youth and hence the flower shall claim. 
If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame. 

Behind some door, in melancholy thought. 
Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff ! pines, 
Ne for his fellows' joyaunce careth aught, 
But to the wind all merriment resigns; 



TEE SGH00L.MI8TRESS, 63 

And deems it shame, if he to peace inclines : 
And many a sullen look askance is sent, 
"Which for his dame's annoyance he designs ; 
And still the more to pleasure him she 's bent, 
The more doth he, perverse, her havior past resent. 

Ah me ! how much I fear lest pride it be ! 
But if that pride it be, which thus inspires, 
Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment see 
Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler fires : 
Ah ! better far than all the Muses' lyres. 
All coward arts, is Valor's generous heat; 
The firm fixt breast which fit and right requires, 
Like Vernon's patriot soul I more justly great 
Than Craft that pimps for ill, or flowery false Deceit. 

Yet nurs'd with skill, what dazzling fruits appear ! 
E'en now sagacious Foresight points to show 
A little bench of heedless bishops here, 
And there a chancellor in embryo, 
Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so. 
As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne'er shall die I 
Though now he crawl along the ground so low, 
Nor weetmg how the Muse should soar on high, 
Wisheth, poor starveling elf ! his paper kite may fly. 

And this perhaps, who, censuring the design. 
Low lays the house which that of cards doth build. 
Shall Dennis be! if rigid Fate incline, 
And many an epic to his rage shall yield ; 
And many a poet quit th' Aonian field ; 
And, sour'd by age, profound he shall appear, 
As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrilled 
Surveys mine work; and levels many a sneer. 
And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, "What stuff is 
here V " 



6 4 SINGLE FAJIO US F OEMS. 

But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle skie, 
And Liberty unbars her prison-door ; 
And like a rushing torrent out they fly, 
And now the grassy cirque had covered o'er, 
TTith boisterous revel-rout and wHd uproar ; 
A thousand ways in wanton rings they run, 
Heaven shield their short-hv'd pastime, I implore I 
For well may Freedom erst so dearly won, 
Appear to British elf more gladsome than the Sun. 

Enjoy, poor imps ! enjoy your sportive trade. 
And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers ; 
For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid, 
never may ye taste more careless hours 
In knightly castles, or in ladies' bowers. 
O vain to seek delight in earthly thing ! 
But most in courts where proud Ambition towers ; 
Deluded wight ! who weens fair Peace can spring 
Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king. 

See in each sprite some various bent appear ! 
These rudely carol most incondite lay ; 
Those sauntering on the green, with jocund leer 
Salute the stranger passing on his way ; 
Some builden fragile tenements of clay ; 
Some to the standing lake their courses bend, 
With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to play ; 
Thilk to the huxter's savory cottage tend. 
In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite to spend. 

Here, as each season yields a different store, 
Each season's stores in order ranged been; 
Apples with cabbage-net y-covered o'er. 
Galling full sore th' unmoney'd wight, are seen; 
And goose-b'rie clad in hvery red or green ; 
And here of lovely dye, the Catharine pear, 
Fine pear ! as lovely for thy juice, I ween : 



TKE CHAMELEON. 65 

may no wight e'er penniless come tliere, 
Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless care ! 

See ! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, 
With thread so white in tempting posies tied, 
Scattering like blooming maid their glances round, 
With pamper'd look draw little eyes aside ; 
And must be bought, though penury betide. 
The plume all azure, and the nut aU brown, 
And here each season do those cakes abide, 
Whose honored names* th' inventive city own, 
Eendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises known ; 

Admir'd Salopia! that with venial pride 
Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient wave, 
Famed for her loyal cares in perils tried, 
Her daughters lovely, and her striplings brave : 
Ah ! 'midst the rest, may flowers adorn his grave 
Whose heart did first these dulcet cates display ! 
A motive fair to Learning's imps he gave, 
Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray ; 
Till Eeason's morn arise, and light them on their way. 

William Shenstone. 



Oft has it been my lot to mark 
A proud, conceited, talking spark. 
With eyes, that hardly served at most 
To guard their master 'gainst a post. 
Yet round the world the blade has been 
To see whatever could be seen, 
Returning from his finished tour, 
Grown ten times perter than before ; 
Whatever word you chance to drop, 
The traveled fool your mouth will stop ; 

Shrewsbury cakes. 



6 SINGLE FAMO U8 P OEMS. 

" Sir, if my judgment you '11 allow, 
I 've seen — and sure I ought to know," 
So begs you 'd pay a due submission, 
And acquiesce in his decision. 

Two travelers of such a cast. 
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed. 
And on their way in friendly chat, 
Now talked of this, and then of that. 
Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter. 
Of the chameleon's form and nature. 
"A stranger animal," cries one, 
" Sure never lived beneath the sun. 
A lizard's body, lean and long, 
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue. 
Its foot with triple claw disjoined; 
And what a length of tail behind ! 
How slow its pace ; and then its hue — 
Who ever saw so fine a blue ? " 

" Hold, there," the other quick replies, 
" 'T is green^ I saw it with these eyes. 
As late with open mouth it lay, 
And warmed it in the sunny ray : 
Stretched at its ease, the beast I viewed 
And saw it eat the air for food." 
'' I 've seen it, sir, as well as you, 
And must again afiirm it blue ; 
At leisure I the beast surveyed, 
Extended in the cooling shade." 
" 'T is green, 't is green, sir, I assure ye! " 
" Green ! " cries the other in a fury — 
" Why, sir ! — d' ye think I 've lost my eyes ? 
" 'T were no great loss," the friend replies, 
" For, if they always serve you thus. 
You '11 find them of but httle use." 



THE CHAMELEON. 67 

So high at last the contest rose, 
From words they almost came to blows ; 
When luckily came by a third — 
To him the question they referred, 
And begged he 'd tell 'em, if he knew, 
"Whether the thing was green or blue. 
"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your pother! 
The creature 's neither one or t' other. 
I caught the animal last night, 
And viewed it o'er by candlelight: 
I marked it well — 't was black as jet — 
You stare — but, sirs, I 've got it yet. 
And can produce it." " Pray, sir, do : 
I '11 lay my life the thing is blue." 
"And I '11 be sworn, that when you 've seen 
The reptile, you '11 pronounce him green." 

"Well, then, at once to ease the doubt," 
Replies the man, " I '11 turn him out : 
And when before your eyes I've set him. 
If you don't find him black, I 'U eat him." 
He said : then full before their sight 
Produced the beast, and lo ! — 't was white. 

Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise — 
"My children," the chameleon cries, 

(Then first the creature found a tongue), 
" You all are right, and aU are wrong : 

When next you talk of what you view, 

Think others see as well as you : 

JSTor wonder, if you find that none 

Prefers your eyesight to his own." 

James Merrick. 



6 8 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

5iealg, WRal^, tut Uobe tie ISonng. 

WALY, waly up tlie bank, 

And waly, waly down the brae, 
And waly, waly yon burn-side, 
Where I and my love wont to gae. 

1 lean'd my back unto an aik, 
And thought it was a trusty tree, 

But first it bow'd, and syne it brak', 
Sae my true love did lightly me. 

waly, waly but love be bonny, 

A little time "rohile it is new, 
But when 't is auld it waxeth cauld 

And fades away Hke morning dew. 
Oh ! wherefore should I busk my head ? 

Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? 
For my true love has me forsook. 

And says he 'U never love me mair. 

Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed, 

The sheets shaU ne'er be fyled by me, 
Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, 

Since my true love 's forsaken me. 
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw. 

And shake the green leaves off the tree ? 
Oh, gentle death ! when wilt thou come ? 

For of my life I am weary. 

'T is not the frost that freezes fell. 

Nor blowing snaw's inclemency : 
'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry, 

But my love's heart grown cauld to me. 
When we came in by Glasgow town. 

We were a comely sight to see ; 
My love was clad in the black velvet, 

And I mysel' in cramasie. 



TEE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. ( 

But had I wist before I kiss'd 

That love had been so ill to win, 
I 'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold, 

And pinn'd it with a silver pin. 
And oh ! if my young babe were born, 

And set upon the nurse's knee. 
And I mysel' were dead and gane, 

Wi' the green grass growing over me ! 

Anonymous. 

Cf)e Cears of Scotlanti* 

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy banish' d peace, thy laurels torn ! 
Thy sons, for valor long renown' d, 
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground; 
Thy hospitable roofs no more 
Invite the stranger to the door; 
In smoky ruins sunk they lie, 
The monuments of cruelty. 

The' wretched owner sees afar 
His all become the prey of war ; 
Bethinks him of his babes and wife. 
Then smites his breast, and curses life. 
Thy swains are famish' d on the rocks. 
Where once they fed their wanton flocks : 
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain; 
Thy infants perish on the plain. 

What boots it then, in every clime, 
Through the wide-spreading waste of time, 
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, 
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze ? 
Thy toAv'ring spirit now is broke, 
Thy neck is bended to the yoke. 
What foreign arms could never quell, 
By civil rage and rancor fell. 
6* 



70 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

The rural pipe and merry lay 
No more shaU cheer the happy day : 
No social scenes of gay delight 
Beguile the dreary winter night : 
No strains but those of sorrow flow, 
And nought be heard but sounds of woe, 
While the pale phantoms of the slain 
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. 

baneful cause, fatal morn, 
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn ! 
The sons against their fathers stood. 
The parent shed his children's blood. 
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd, 
The victor's soul was not appeas'd: 
The naked and forlorn must feel 
Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel ! 

The pious mother doom'd to death, 
Forsaken wanders o'er the heath. 
The bleak wind whistles round her head. 
Her helpless orphans cry for bread ; 
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend. 
She views the shades of night descend. 
And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies. 
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. 

While the warm blood bedews my veins. 
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns, 
Eesentment of my country's fate 
Within my filial breast shall beat ; 
And, spite of her insulting foe, 
My sympathizing verse shall flow : 
"Mourn, hapless Caledonia mourn 
Thy banish' d peace, thy laurels torn ! " 

Tobias Smollett. 



TEE VICAB OF BRAT. Vl 

C^e Vitax of 13rag, 

In good King Charles's golden days, 

When loyalty no harm meant, 
A zealous high-churchman was I, 

And so I got preferment. 
To teach my flock I never missed : 
• Kings were by God appointed, 
And lost are those that dare resist 
Or touch the Lord's anointed. 
And this is law that I'll maintain 

Until my dying day^ sir, 
That whatsoever King shall reign, 
Still I'll he Vicar of Bray, sir. 

When royal James possessed the crown, 

And popery grew in fashion, 
The penal laws I hooted down, 

And read the declaration ; 
The church of Rome I found would fit 

Full well my constitution ; 
And I had been a Jesuit 

But for the revolution. 

When William was our king declared. 

To ease the nation's grievance ; 
With this new wind about I steered. 

And swore to him allegiance ; 
Old principles I did revoke, 

Set conscience at a distance ; 
Passive obedience was a joke, 

A jest was non-resistance. 

When royal Anne became our queen, 

The church of England's glory. 
Another face of things was seen, 

And I became a Tory ; 



72 SIXGLE FAJIO US P OEMS. 

Occasional conformists base, 

I blamed their moderation ; 
And thought the chm-ch in danger was, 

Bj such prevarication. 

"When George in pudding-time came o er, 

And moderate men looked big, sir, 
Mj principles I changed once more, 

And so became a Whig, sir ; 
And thus preferment I procured 

From our new faith's defender ; 
And almost every day abjured 

The pope and the pretender. 

The illustrious house of Hanover, 

And Protestant succession. 
To these I do allegiance swear — 

"While they can keep possession : 
For in my faith and loyalty 

I nevermore will falter, 
And G-eorge my lawful king shall be — 
Until the times do alter. 
And this is law that TU maintain 

Until my dying day^ sir, 
That ivhat soever 'king shall reign, 
Still III he Yi€ar of Bray, sir. 

As'ONTMOUS. 

Otumnor JgalL 

The dews of summer night did fall ; 

The moon, sweet regent of the sky, 
Silvered the walls of Cum nor HaU, 

And many an oak that grew thereby. 

Kow naught was heard beneath the skies, 
The sounds of busy life were still. 



CUMNOR HALL. ^y 

Save an unhappy lady's sighs, 
That issued from that lonely pile. 

''Leicester," she cried, "is this thy love 
That thou so oft hast sv^orn to me, 
To leave me in this lonely grove, 
Immured in shameful privity ? 

" ISTo more thou com'st with lover's speed, 
Thy once beloved bride to see ; 
But be she alive, or be she dead, 

I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee. 

" ll^ot so the usage I received 

When happy in my father's hall; 
No faithless husband then me grieved, 
No chilling fears did me appal. 

" I rose up with the cheerful morn. 

No lark more blithe, no flower more gay ; 
And like the bird that haunts the thorn, 
So merrily sung the livelong day. 

" If that my beauty is but small. 

Among court ladies all despised. 
Why didst thou rend it from that hall, 
Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized ? 

" And when you first to me made suit, 
How fair I was, you oft would say ! 
And proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, 
Then left the blossom to decay. 

"Yes! now neglected and despised, 
The rose is pale, the lily's dead ; 
But he that once their charms so prized. 
Is sure the cause those charms are fled. 

7 



V i SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS 

" For know, when sick'ning grief doth prey, 
And tender love 's repaid with scorn, 
The sweetest beauty will decay, — 
What floweret can endure the storm? 

"At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, 
Where every lady 's passing rare, 
That Eastern flowers, that shame the sun, 
Are not so glowing, not so fair. 

" Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds 
Where roses and where lilies vie. 
To seek a primrose, whose pale shades 
Must sicken when those gauds are by? 

" 'Mong rural beauties I was one. 

Among the fields wild flowers are fair ; 
Some country swain might me have won. 
And thought my beauty passing rare. 

*' But, Leicester, (or I much am wrong,) 
Or 't is not beauty lures thy vows ; 
Eather ambition's gilded crown 

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. 

" Then, Leicester, why, again I plead, 
(The injured surely may repine,) — 
Why didst thou wed a country maid. 
When some fair princess might be thine ? 

" Why didst thou praise my humble charm.s. 
And, oh ! then leave them to decay ? 
Why didst thou win me to thy arms. 
Then leave to mourn the livelong day ? 

" The village maidens of the plain 
Salute me lowly as they go ; 



CUMNOR HALL. 

Envious they mark my silken train, 
ISTor think a Countess can have woe. 

" The simple nymphs ! they little know 
How far more happy 's their estate ; 
To smile for joy than sigh for woe — 
To be content — than to be great. 

" How far less blest am I th,an them? 
Daily to pine and waste with care ! 
Like the poor plant, that, from its stem 
Divided, feels the chilhng an*. 

" Nor, cruel Earl ! can I enjoy 

The humble charms of solitude ; 
Your minions proud my peace destroy, 
By sullen frowns or pratings rude. 

" Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, 
The village death-bell smote my ear; 
They winked aside, and seemed to say, 
' Countess, prepare, thy end is near.' 

"And now, while happy peasants sleep, 
Here I sit lonely and forlorn ; 
No one to soothe me as I weep, 
Save Philomel on yonder thorn. 

"My spirits flag — my hopes decay — 

Still that dread death-bell smites my ear, 
And many a boding seems to say, 
' Countess, prepare, thy end is near ! ' " 

Thus sore and sad that lady grieved. 
In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear. 

And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, 
And let fall many a bitter tear. 



76 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. 

And ere the da-wn of day appeared, 
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, 

Full many a piercing scream was heard, 
And many a cry of mortal fear. 

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring. 
An aerial voice was heard to call. 

And thrice the raven flapped its wing 
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. 

The mastijff howled at village door, 
The oaks were shattered on the green ; 

Woe was the hour, for nevermore 
That hapless Countess e'er was seen. 

And in that manor now no more 
Is cheerful feast and sprightly baU ; 

For ever since that dreary hour 
Have spirits haunted Cumnor HaU. 

The village maids, with fearful glance, 
Avoid the ancient moss-grown waD, 

Nor ever lead the merry dance, 

Among the groves of Cumnor HaU. 

Full many a traveler oft hath sighed. 
And pensive wept the Countess' fall. 

As wandering onward they 've espied 
The haunted towers of Cumnor HaU. 

William Julius Mickle. 



Cf)e jailor's ^miU. 

And are ye sure the news is true ? 

And are ye sure he 's weel ? 
Is this a time to think o' wark ? 

Ye jades, lay by your wheel. 



THE SAILOR'S WIFE. 

Is this the time to spin a thread, 

"When Cohn 's at the door ? 
Eeach down my cloak, I '11 to the quay, 

And see him come ashore. 
For there 's nae luck about the house. 

There 's nae luck at a' ; 
There 's little pleasure in the house 

When our gudeman 's awa'. 

And gie to me my bigonet, 

My bishop's satin gown ; 
For I maun tell the bailie's wife 

That Colin 's in the town. 
My Turkey slippers maun gae on, 

My stockins pearly blue ; 
It 's a' to pleasure our gudeman. 

For he 's baith leal and true. 

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, 

Put on the muckle pot; 
G-ie httle Kate her button gown. 

And Jock his Sunday coat ; 
And mak their shoon as black as slaes, 

Their hose as white as snaw ; 
It 's a' to please my ain gudeman, 

For he 's been lang awa'. 

There 's twa fat hens upo' the coop, 

Been fed this month and mair ; 
Mak haste and thraw their necks about, 

That Cohn weel may fare; 
And spread the table neat and clean, 

G-ar ilka thing look braw, 
For wha can tell how Cohn fared 

When he was far awa' ? 

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech. 
His breath like caller air; 



7 8 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

His very foot has music in 't 

As he comes up the stair. 
And will I see his face again ? 

And will I hear him speak ? 
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought— 

In troth I 'm like to greet ! 

If Cohn 's weel, and weel content, 

I hae nae mair to crave ; 
And gin I live to keep him sae, 

I'm blest aboon the lave. 
And will I see his face again ? 

And Avill I hear him speak ? 
I 'm downright dizzy Avi' the thought — 

In troth I 'm like to greet. 
For there 's nae luck about the house, 

There 's nae luck at a' ; 
There's little pleasure in the house 



When our gudeman 's awa'. 



Jean Ad'am. 



I 'm often ask'd by plodding souls 

And men of crafty tongue, 
What joy I take in draining bowls, 

And tippling all night long. 
Now, though these cautious knaves I scorn, 

For once I '11 not disdain 
To tell them why I sit till morn 

And fill my glass again. 

'T is by the glow my bumper gives 

Life's picture 's mellow made ; 
The fading light then brightly lives. 

And softly sinks the shade ; 



THE TOPERS APOLOGY. 79 

Some happier tint still rises there 

With every drop I drain — 
And that I think 's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

My Muse, too, when her wings are dry, 

No frolic flight will take ; 
But round a bowl she '11 dip and fly, 

Like swallows round a lake. 
Then if the nymph will have her share 

Before she '11 bless her swain — 
Why that I think 's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

In life I 've rung all changes too, — 

Run every pleasure down, — 
Tried all extremes of fancy through, 

And lived with haK the town ; 
For me there 's nothing new or rare, 

Till wine deceives my brain — 
And that I think 's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

There 's many a lad I knew is dead, 

And many a lass grown old ; 
And as the lesson strikes my head. 

My weary heart grows cold. 
But wine awhile drives ofi" despair, 

Nay, bids a hope remain — 
And that I think 's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

Then, hipp'd and vex'd at England's state 

In these convulsive days, 
I can't endure the ruin'd fate 

My sober eye surveys ; 
But, 'midst the bottle's dazzling glare, 

I see the gloom less plain — 



80 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

And that I think 's a reason fair 
To fill my glass again. 

I find too when I stint my glass, 

And sit with sober air, 
I 'm prosed by some dull reasoning ass. 

Who treads the path of care ; 
Or, harder tax'd, I 'm forced to bear 

Some coxcomb's fribbling strain — 
And that I think 's a reason fair 

To fiU my glass again. 

Nay, do n't we see Love's fetters, too, 

With different holds entwine ? 
While nought but death can some undo, 

There 's some give way to wine. 
With me the lighter head I wear 

The lighter hangs the chain — 
And that I think 's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

And now I '11 tell, to end my song. 
At what I most repine ; 
. This cursed war, or right or wrong. 
Is war against all wine ; 
Nay, Port, they say, will soon be rare 

As juice of France or Spain — 
And that I think 's a reason fair 
To fill my glass again. 

Charles Morris. 

The tree of deepest root is found 
Least willing still to quit the ground : 
'T was therefore said by ancient sages, 
That love of life increased with years 
So much, that in our later stages. 



THE THREE WARNINGS. 81 

When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, 

The greatest love of life appears. 
This great affection to believe. 
Which all confess, but fevt^ perceive, — 
If old assertions can't prevail, — 
Be pleased to hear a modern tale. 

When sports went round, and all were gay, 
On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day. 
Death called aside the jocund groom 
With him into another room, 
And looking grave — "You must," says he, 
" Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." 
" With you ! and quit my Susan's side ! 

With you ! " the hapless husband cried ; 
" Young as I am 't is monstrous hard ! 
Besides, in truth, I 'm not prepared : 
My thoughts on other matters go ; 
This is my wedding-day you know." 
What more he urged, I have not heard. 

His reasons could not well be stronger ; 
So Death the poor delinquent spared, 
And left to live a little longer. 
Yet calhng up a serious look — 
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke — 
" Neighbor," he said, '' Farewell ! ISTo more 
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour ; 
And farther, to avoid all blame 
Of cruelty upon my name, 
To give you time for preparation, 
And fit you for your future station. 
Three several warnings you shall have, 
Before you 're summoned to the grave. 
Wilhng for once I '11 quit my prey. 

And grant a kind reprieve. 
In hopes you '11 have no more to say, 
But, when I caU again this way. 
Well pleased the world will leave." 
7* 



82 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

To these conditions both consented, 
And parted perfectly contented. 

What next the hero of our tale befell, 
How long he lived, how wise, how well, 
How roundly he pursued his course. 
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse, 

The wilhng muse shall tell. 
He chaffered then, he bought, he sold, 
Nor once perceived his growing old, 

ISTor thought of death as near ; 
His friends not false, his wife no shrew, 
Many his gains, his children few. 

He passed his hours in peace. 
But while he viewed his wealth increase, 
While thus along life's dusty road 
The beaten track content he trod, 
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares. 
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares. 

Brought on his eightieth year. 
And now, one night, in musing mood 

As all alone he sat, 
Th' unwelcome messenger of fate 

Once more before him stood. 
Half killed with anger and surprise, 
" So soon returned! " old Dodson cries. 

" So soon, d' ye call it? " Death replies. 
"Surely, my friend, you 're but in jest! 

Since I was here before 
'T is six-and- thirty years at least. 

And you are now fourscore." 
" So much the worse," the clown rejoined ; 
" To spare the aged would be kind : 
However, see your search be legal ; 
And your authority- — is 't regal? 
Else you are come on a fool's errand. 
With but a secretary's warrant. 
Besides, you promised me Three Warnings, 



LIFE. 83 

Which I have looked for nights and mornings ; 
But for that loss of time and ease, 
I can recover damages." 

'■'■ I know," cries Death, that at the best 
I seldom am a v^^elcome guest ; 
But do n't be captious, friend, at least: 
I little thought you 'd still be able 
To stump about your farm and stable ; 
Your years have run to a great length; 
I wish you joy, though, of your strength ! " 

''Hold," says the farmer, "not so fast! 
I have been lame these four years past." 

"And no great wonder," Death replies: 
" However, you still keep your eyes ; 
And sure, to see one's loves and friends. 
For legs and arms would make amends." 

" Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might, 
But latterly I 've lost my sight" 

" This is a shocking tale, 't is true. 
But still there 's comfort left for you : 
Each strives your sadness to amuse ; 
I warrant you hear all the news." 

" There 's none," cries he; " and if there were, 
I 'm grown so deaf I could not hear." 
" Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined, 
" These are unwarrantable yearnings ; 
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind. 

You 've had your three sufficient warnings. 
So, come along, no more we. '11 part," 
He said, and touched him with his dart. 
And now old Dodson, turning pale, 
Yields to his fate — so ends niy tale. 

Hester Thrale. 

Ei'fe, 

hat tho 
But know that thou and I must part , 



84 SINGLE FAMOUS F OEMS. 

And when, or how, or where we met, 
I own to me 's a secret yet. 

Life, we have been long together, 
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
'T is hard to part when friends are dear, 
Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear ; 
Then steal away, give little warning, 

Choose thine own time. 
Say not Good-Night, but in some brighter clime 

Bid me Good-Morning. 

Anna L^titia Baebacld. 

When shall we three meet again ? 
When shall we three meet again ? 
Oft shall glowing hope expire, 
Oft shall wearied love retire, 
Oft shall death and sorrow reign, 
Ere we three shall meet again. 

Though in distant lands "we sigh. 
Parched beneath a burning sky ; 
Though the deep between us rolls, 
Friendship shall unite our souls ; 
Oft in Fancy's rich domain ; 
Oft shall we three meet again. 

When our burnished locks are gray, 
Thinned by many a toil-spent day ; 
When around this youthful pine 
Moss shall creep and ivy twine, — 
Long may this loved bower remain — 
Here may we three meet again. 

When the dreams of hfe are fled ; 
When its wasted lamps are dead ; 



GAFFER GRAY. 85 

When in cold oblivion's shade 
Beauty, wealth, and fame are laid, — 
Where immortal spirits reign, 
There may we three meet again. 

Anonymous. 



" Ho ! why dost thou shiver and shake, 
Gaffer Gray, 
And why doth thy nose look so blue ? " 
" 'T is the weather that 's cold, 
'T is I 'm grown very old, 
And my doublet is not very new, 
Well-a-day ! " 

'' Then line that warm doublet with ale. 
Gaffer Gray, 
And warm thy old heart with a glass." 
" Nay, but credit I 've none. 
And my money 's all gone ; 
Then say how may that come to pass ? 
Well-a-day 1 " 

" Hie away to the house on the brow. 
Gaffer Gray, 
And knock at the jolly priest's door." 
" The priest often preaches 
Against worldly riches. 
But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, 
WeU-a-day!" 

" The lawyer Uves under the hill, 
Gaffer Gray, 
Warmly fenced both in back and in front.' 
" He will fasten his locks. 
And will threaten the stocks, 
8 



86 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS 

Should lie evermore find me in want, 
Well-a day ! " 

" The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, 
Grafifer Grray, 
And the season will w^elcome you there." 
" His fat beeves and his beer. 
And his merry new year, 
Are all for the flush and the fair, 
Well-a-day ! " 

'' My keg is but low, I confess, 
Gaffer G-ray, 
What then ? While it lasts, man, we '11 live." 
'■'■ The poor man alone, 
When he hears the poor moan, 
Of his morsel a morsel will give, 
Well-a-day." 

Thomas Holcroft. 

SSai&at (Konistitutes a State, 

What constitutes a state ? 
Not high-raised battlement or labored mound. 

Thick wall or moated gate ; 
Not cities proud with spires and turrets croAvned ; 

Not bays and broad-armed ports, 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; 

Not starred and spangled courts. 
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. 

No : — men,, high-minded men, 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued 

In forest, brake, or den. 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude, — 

Men who their duties know. 
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, 

Prevent the long-aimed blow, 



TO THE CUCKOO. 87 

And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain; 

These constitute a state ; 
And sovereign law, that state's collected will, 

O'er thrones and globes elate 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 

Smit by her sacred frown. 
The fiend. Dissension, like a vapor sinks ; 

And e'en the all-dazzling crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks ; 

Such was this heaven-loved isle, 
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! 

No more shall freedom smile ? 
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ? 

Since all must life resign. 
Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 

'Tis folly to decline. 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 

Sir William Jones. 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 

Thou messenger of Spring ! 
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, 

And woods thy welcome sing. 

Soon as the daisy decks the green, 

Thy certain voice we hear. 
Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 

Or mark the rolling year ? 

Delightful visitant ! with thee 

I hail the time of flowers. 
And hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bowers. 

The school-boy, wandering through the wood 
To pull the primrose gay, 



88 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Starts, thy most curious voice to hear, 
And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom, 
Thou fliest thy vocal vale, 

An annual guest in other lands. 
Another spring to hail. 

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song. 

No winter in thy year 1 

Oh, could I fly, I 'd fly with thee ! 

We 'd make, with joyful wing. 
Our annual visit o'er the globe. 

Attendants on the Spring. 



John Logan. 



When the sheep are in the fauld, and a' the kye at hame, 
And a' the weary warld to sleep are gane, 
The waes o' my heart faU in showers from my e'e, 
While my gudeman sleeps sound by me. 

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, 
But saving a crown he had naithing else beside : 
To mak' the crown a pound, my Jamie went to sea, 
And the crown and the pound were baith for me. 

He had nae been gane a year and a day. 

When my faith er brake his arm, and our cow was stole 

away; 
My mither she fell sick, and Jamie at the sea. 
And auld Robin G-ray cam' a courting to me. 



MABY'SDBEAM. 89 

My faither could na wark, my mither could na spin, 
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I could na win ; 
Auld Eob maintain'd 'em baith, and wi' tears in his ee, 
Said, "Jennie, for their sakes, oh marry me." 

My heart it said nay, for I look'd for Jamie back. 
But the wind it blew hard, and the ship was a wrack — 
The ship was a wrack, why did na Jamie dee ? 
Or why was I spared to cry, Wae's me 1 

My faither urged me sair, my mither did na speak. 
But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break : 
They gi'ed him my hand, though my heart was at sea, — ■ 
So auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me ! 

I had na been a wife a week but only four, 
When, sitting sae mournfully out at my door, 
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I could na think it he. 
Till he said, " I 'm come hame, love, to marry thee." 

Sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say, — 
We took but ae kiss, and tare oursels away : 
I wish I were dead, but I am na lik' to dee, — 
Oh, why was I born to say, Wae's me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, but I care not to spin ; 

I dare not think on Jamie, for that would be a sin ; 

So I will do my best a gude wife to be. 

For auld Robin G-ray is kind unto me. 

Lady Anne Barnard. 

iKlarg's ©ream. 

The moon had climbed the highest hill 
Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 

And from the eastern summit shed 
Her silver light on tower and tree. 



90 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS 

When Mary laid her down to sleep, 
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, 

"When, soft and slow, a voice was heard, 
Saying, '^ Mary, weep no more for me ! " 

She from her pillow gently raised 

Her head, to ask who there might be, 
And saw young Sandy shivering stand, 

With visage pale, and hollow e'e. 
" Mary dear, cold is my clay ; 

It lies beneath a stormy sea. 
Far, far from thee I sleep in death ; 

So, Mary, weep no more for me ! 

" Three stormy nights and stormy days 

We tossed upon the raging main ; 
And long we strove our bark to save, 

But all our striving was in vain. 
Even then, when horror chilled my blood, 

My heart was filled with love, for thee : 
The storm is past, and I at rest ; 

So, Mary, weep no more for me ! 

" maiden dear, thyself prepare ; 

We soon shall meet upon that shore, 
Where love is free from doubt and care, 
And thou and I shall part no more! " 
Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, 

No more of Sandy could she see ; 
But soft the passing spirit said, 
" Sweet Mary, weep no more for me ! '' 

John Lowe. 

^mw IS Cime? 

I ASKED an aged man, with hoary hairs. 
Wrinkled and curved with worldl}^ cares : 



WHAT IS TIME? 91 

"Time is the warp of life," said he ; " 0, tell 
The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well ! " 
I asked the ancient, A^enerable dead, 
Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled : 
From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed, 

" Time sowed the seed we reap in this abode ! " 
I asked a dying sinner, ere the tide 
Of life had left his veins : " Time ! " he rephed ; 

"I 've lost it! ah, the treasure ! " — and he died, 
I asked the golden sun and silver spheres, 
Those bright chronometers of days and years : 
They answered, " Time is but a meteor glare," 
And bade me for eternity prepare. 
I asked the Seasons, in their annual round, 
Which beautify or desolate the ground ; 
And they rephed (no oracle more wise), 

" 'T is Folly's blank, and "Wisdom's highest prize ! " 
I asked a spirit lost, — but the shriek 
That pierced my soul ! I shudder while I speak. 
It cried, " A particle ! a speck ! a mite 
Of endless years, duration infinite! " 
Of things inanimate, my dial I 
Consulted, and it made me this reply,— 

" Time is the season fair of living well, 
The path of glory or the path of hell." 
I asked my Bible, and methinks it said, 

" Time is the present hour, the past has fled ; 
Live ! hve to-day ! to-morrow never yet 
On any human being rose or set." 
I asked old Father Time himself at last ; 
But in a moment he flew swiftly past, 
His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind 
His noiseless steeds, which left no trace behind. 
I asked the mighty angel who shall stand 
One foot on sea and one on solid land : 

"Mortal! " he cried, "the mystery now is o'er; 
Time was, Time is, but Time shall be no more ! " 

William Marsden. 



9 2 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS 

CJe aerobes of ^larneg. 

The groves of Blarney, they look so charming, 
DoT^'n by the purhngs of sweet silent brooks. 

All decked with posies, that spontaneous grow th(;re, 
Planted in order in the rocky nooks, 

'T is there the daisy, and the sweet carnation. 
The blooming pink, and the rose so fair ; 

Likewise the lily, and the daffodilly — 



'T is Lady Jaffers owns this plantation, 

Like Alexander, or like Helen fair; 
There 's no commander in all the nation 

For regulation can with her compare. 
Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder 

Could ever plunder her place of strength; 
But Ohrer Cromwell, he did her pommel, 

And made a breach in her battlement. 

There 's gravel walks there for speculation. 

And conversation in sweet sohtude ; 
'T is there the lover may hear the dove, or 

The gentle plover, in the afternoon. 
And if a young lady should be so engaging 

As to walk alone in those shady bowers, 
'T is there her courtier, he may transport her 

In some dark port, or under ground. 

For 't is there 's the cave where no dayhght enters, 

But bats and badgers are forever bred ; 
Being mossed by natur' which makes it sweeter 

Than a coach and six, or a feather bed. 
'T is there 's the lake that is stored with perches. 

And comely eels in the verdant mud ; 
Besides the leeches, and the groves of beeches, 

All standing in order for to guard the flood. 



HELEN OF KIRKGONNEL. 93 

'T is there 's the kitchen hangs many a flitch in, 

With the maids a-stitching upon the stair ; 
The bread and biske', the beer and whiskey, 

Would make you frisky if you were there. 
'T is there you 'd see Peg Murphy's daughter 

A w^ashing praties forenent the door, 
With Roger Cleary, and Father Healy, 

All blood relations to my Lord Donoughmore. 

There 's statues gracing this noble place in, 

All heathen goddesses so fair — 
Bold Neptune, Plutarch, and Kicodemus, 

All standing naked in the open air. 
So now to finish this brave narration, 

Which my poor geni' could not entwine ; 
But were I Homer, or ISTebuchadnezzar, 

'T is in every feature I would make it shine. 

EiCHARD Alfred Milliken. 

Jgelen of itirfeccinneL 

I WISH I were where Helen lies, 
For night and day on me she cries, 
And, like an angel, to the skies 

Still seems to beckon me I 
For me she lived, for me she sigh'd, 
For me she wish'd to be a bride. 
For me in life's sweet morn she died 

On fair Kirkconnel-Lee ! 

Where Kirtle waters gently wind. 
As Helen on my arm reclined, 
A rival Avith a ruthless mind 

Took deadly aim at me. 
My love, to disappoint the foe, 
Rush'd in between me and tlie blow ; 
And now her corse is lying low, 

On fair Kirkconnel-Lee ! 
8* 



94 SINGLE FAMO U8 P OEMS. 

Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell, 
I curse the hand by which sh'e fell, 
The fiend who made my heaven a hell, 

And tore my love from me ! 
For if, when all the graces shine, 
0, if on earth there 's aught divine, 
My Helen, all these charms were thine, 

They centred all in thee ! 

Ah! what avails it that, amain, 

I clove the assassin's head in twain ? 

No peace of mind, my Helen slain, 

No resting-place for me. 
I see her spirit in the air — 
I hear the shriek of wild despair, 
When murder laid her bosom bare, 

On fair Kirkconnel-Lee ! 

0, when I 'm sleeping in my grave, 
And o'er my head the rank weeds wave, 
May He who life and spirit gave 

Unite my love and me ! 
Then from this world of doubts and sighs, 
My soul on wings of peace shall rise, 
And, joining Helen in the skies, 

Forget Kirkconnel-Lee. 

John Mayne. 

Otonnel anti dFlora, 

Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main. 
Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again ; 
Alas ! morn returns to revisit the shore ; 
But Connel returns to his Flora no more. 

For see, on yon mountain the dark cloud of death 
O'er Connel's lone cottage, lies low on the heath; 
While bloody and pale on a far distant shore 
He lies, to return to his Flora no more. 



THE SOLDIER. 95 

Ye light fleeting spirits that ghde o'er the steep, 
0, would you but waft me across the wild deep, 
There fearless ,X'd mix in the battle's loud roar, 
I 'd die with ray Connel, and leave him no more. 

Alexander Wilson. 

What dreaming drone was ever blest, 

By thinking of the morrow ? 
To-day be mine — I leave the rest 

To all the fools of sorrow ; 
Give me the mind that mocks at care, 

The heart its own defender ; 
The spirits that are light as air. 

And never beat surrender. 

On comes the foe — to arms — to arms — 

We meet — 't is death or glory ; 
'T is victory in all her charms, 

Or fame in Britain's story ; 
Dear native land ! thy fortunes frown, 

And ruffians would enslave thee ; 
Thou land of honor and renown, 

Who would not die to save thee ? 

'T is you, 't is I, that meets the ball; 

And me it better pleases 
In battle with the brave to fall, 

Than die of cold diseases ; 
Than drivel on in elbow-chair 

With saws and tales unheeded, 
A tottering thing of aches and care. 

Nor longer loved nor needed. 

But thou — dark is thy flowing hair. 

Thy eye with lire is streaming, 
And o'er thy cheek, thy looks, thine air. 

Health sits in triumph beaming ; 



96 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Then, brother soldier, fill the wine, 
Fill high the wine to beauty ; 

Love, friendship, honor, all are thine, 
Thy country and thy duty. 



William Smyth. 



Cfje beggar. 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, 

Whose trembling hmbs have borne him to your door, 
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, 

0, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. 

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, 

These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years ; 

And many a furrow m my grief-worn cheek 
Has been the channel of a stream of tears. 

Yon house, erected on the rising ground. 

With tempting aspect drew me from my road, 

For plenty there a residence has found. 
And grandeur a magnificent abode. 

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor ! 

Here craving for a morsel of their bread, 
A pampered menial forced me from the door, 

To seek a shelter in a humbler shed. 

0, take me to your hospitable dome. 

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold; 

Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, 
For I am poor and miserably old. 

Should I reveal the source of every grief. 
If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, 

Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, 
And tears of pity could not be repressed. 



THE OEFHAN BOY. 97 

Heaven sends misfortunes — why should we repine ? 

'T is heaven has brought me to the state you see : 
And your condition may be soon hke mine, 

The child of sorrow and of misery. 

A little farm was my paternal lot, 

Then hke the lark I sprightly hailed the morn; 
But ah ! oppression forced me from my cot ; 

My cattle died, and blighted Avas my corn. 

My daughter, once the comfort of my age, 
Lured by a villain from her native home. 

Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage, 
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam. 

My tender w^ife, sweet soother of my care. 
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, 

Fell, lingering fell, a victim of despair, 

And left the world to wretchedness and me. 

Then pity the sorrows of a poor old man, 

Whose trembling hmbs have borne him to 3^our door, 
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, 

0, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. 

Thomas Moss. 



Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake. 

And hear a helpless orphan's tale ; 
Ah, sure my looks must pity wake, — 

'T is want that makes my cheek so pale ; 
Yet I was once a mother's pride, 

And my brave father's hope and joy ; 
But in the Nile's proud fight he died. 

And I am now an orphan boy. 
9 



98 SIXGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Poor, foolish child ! how pleased was I, 

When news of Xelson's victory came, 
Along the crowded streets to fly, 

To see the lighted windows flame ! 
To force me home my mother sought, — 

She could not bear to hear my joy ; 
For with my father's hfe 't was bought, — 

And made me a poor orphan boy. 

The people's shouts were long and loud ; 
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears ; 
" Rejoice ! rejoice ! " still cried the crowd, — ■ 

My mother answered with her tears ! 
" 0, why do tears steal down your cheek," 
Cried I, '' while others shout for joy ? " 
She kissed me, and in accents weak. 
She called me her poor orphan boy. 

" What is an orphan boy ? " I said ; 

When suddenly she gasped for breath, 
And her eyes closed ! I shrieked for aid. 

But ah ! her eyes were closed in death. 
My hardships since I will not tell ; 

But now, no more a parent's joy, 
Ah ! lady, I have learned too well 

What 't is to be an orphan boy. 

0, were I by your bounty fed — 

Kay, gentle lady, do not chide ; 
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread, — • 

The sailor's orphan boy has pride. 
Lady, you weep ; what is 't you say ? 

You '11 give me clothing, food, employ ? 
Look down, dear parents, look and see 

Tour happy, happy orphan boy ! 

Amelia OriE. 



TEE TEARS I SHED. 99 

Nlfiflt. 

Mysterious Night, when our first parent knew 
Thee, from report divine, and heard thy name, 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 

This glorious canopy of light and blue ? 

Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew 

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hesperus with the host of heaven came. 

And lo ! Creation widened on Man's view. 

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 
Within thy beams, Sun ! or who could find, 

While flower, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us bhnd ! 

Why do we then shun death with anxious strife ? 

If hght can thus deceive, wherefore not life ? 

Joseph Blanco White. 

The tears I shed must ever fall : 

I mourn not for an absent swain ; 
For thoughts may past dehghts recall, 

And parted lovers meet again. 
I weep not for the silent dead ; 

Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er; 
And those they loved their steps shall tread. 

And death shall join to part no more. 

Though boundless oceans roll between. 

If certain that his heart is near, 
A conscious transport glads each scene. 

Soft is the sigh, and sweet the tear. 
E'en when by death's cold hand removed. 

We mourn the tenant of the tomb. 
To think that e'en in death he loved. 

Can gild the horrors of the gloom. 



1 00 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. 

But bitter, bitter are the tears 

Of her who sHghted love bewails ; 
No hope her dreary prospect cheers, 

No pleasing melancholy hails. 
Hers are the pangs of wounded pride, 

Of blasted hope, of wither' d joy ; 
The flatt'ring veil is rent aside, 

The flame of love burns to destroy. 

In vain does memory renew 

The hours once tinged in transport's dye j 
The sad reverse soon starts to view. 

And turns the past to agony. 
E'en time itself despairs to cure 

Those pangs to ev'ry feehng due : 
Ungenerous youth ! thy boast how poor, 

To win a heart — and break it too ! 

[jSTo cold approach, no alter' d mien, 

Just what would make suspicion start ; 
No pause the dire extremes between, 

He made me blest — and broke my heart.] 
From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn ; 

Neo-lected and neglecting all ; 
Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn; 

The tears I shed must ever fall. 

Helen Cranstoun Stewart. 

Co an IntJian (§clti Otcm* 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine. 

What vanity has brought thee here ? 
How can I love to see thee shine 

So bright, whom I have bought so dear ? 

The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear 
For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear 
Wlien mirth and music wont to cliarra. 



TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. loi 

By Cherical's dark wandering streams, 

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, 
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams 

Of Teviot loved while still a child, 

Of castled rocks stupendous piled 
By Esk or Eden's classic wave, 

Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, 
Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade ! 

The perished bhss of youth's first prime. 
That once so bright on fancy played, 

Eevives no more in after-time. 

Far from my sacred natal clime, 
I haste to an untimely grave ; 

The daring thoughts that soared sublime 
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. 

Slave of the mine, thy yellow light 

Grleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. 
A gentle vision comes by night 

My lonely widowed heart to cheer : 

Her eyes are dim with many a tear, 
That once were guiding stars to mine : 

Her fond heart throbs with many a fear ! 
I cannot bear to see thee shine. 

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 

I left a heart that loved me true ! 
I crossed the tedious ocean-wave. 

To roam in climes unkind and new. 

The cold wind of the stranger blew 
Chill on my withered heart ; the grave 

Dark and untimely met my view, — • 
And all for thee, vile yellow slave 1 

Ha ! com'st thou now so late to mock 
A wanderer's banished heart forlorn. 



102 SIXGLE FJJWUS FOEJIS. 

Kow that his frame the hghtning shock 
Of sun-rajs tipped \rith death has borne ? 
From love, from friendship, country, torn, 

To memory's fond regrets the prey. 
Vile slave, thy yeUow dross I scorn ! 

Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! 

JoKS' Leydex. 

E Fi'sit from St Xicjolas. 

'T WAS the night before Christmas, when aU through the 

house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; 
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there ; 
The children "were nestled all snug in their beds, 
TVhile visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; 
And Mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, 
Had just settled our brains for a long winter nap, — 
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. 
Away to the window I flew hke a flash, 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the- sash. 
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow. 
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below ; 
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, 
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, 
With a httle old driver, so hvely and quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came. 
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name : 
' Now, Dasher ! now, Dancer ! now, Prancer and Yixen ! 
On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Dunder and Blixen — 
To the top of the porch, to the top of the waU ! 
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away aU! " 
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly. 
When thev meet with an obstacle, mount to the skv, 



THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 103 

So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew, 
With the sleigh full of toys — and St. Nicholas too. 
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof 
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 
As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 
Down the chimney St. JSTicholas came with a bound. 
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot. 
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; 

■ A bundle of toys he had flung on his back. 
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. 
His eyes how they twinkle ! his dimples how merry ! 
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry ; 
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, 
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. 
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. 
He had a broad face and a little round belly 
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. 
He was chubby and plump — a right jolly old elf; 
And I laughed when I saAv him, in spite of myself. 
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, 
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. 
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, 
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, 
And laying his finger aside of his nose. 
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, 
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle ; 
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 

" Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night I " 

Clement C. Moore. 

0, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleam- 
ing? 



104 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous 
fight, 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly stream- 
ing; 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
Grave proof through the night that our flag Avas still there. 
0, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 
As it fi.tfully blows, half conceals, half discloses ? 

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 

In full glory reflected now shines on tlie stream. 

'T is the star-spangled banner ! 0, long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 

A home and a country should leave us no more ? 

Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. 

No refuge could save the hireling and slave, 

Prom the terror of death and the gloom of the grave. 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 

0, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 

Between their loved homes and the war's desolation ; 

Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land 
Praise the power that has made and preserved us a na- 
tion. 

Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, 

And this be our motto, ''In G-od is our trust." 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 

Francis Scott Key. 



LUCY'S FLITTIN\ 105 

'T WjLS when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in', 

And Martinmas doAvie had wound up the year, 
That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in 't 

And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear. 
Eor Lucy had served in " The Grlen " a' the simmer ; 

She cam' there afore the flower bloom'd on the pea; 
An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her, 

Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee. 

She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin', 

Eicht sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see : 
Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! quo Jamie, and ran in; 

The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his ee. 
As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' the flittin", 

Fare-ye-weel, Lucy ! was ilka bird's sang ; 
She heard the craw say in' 't, high on the tree sittin', 

And robin was chirpin' 't the brown leaves amang. 

Oh, what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter ? 

And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee ? 
If I wasna ettled to be ony better. 

Then what gars me wish ony better to be ? 
I 'm just like a lammie that loses its mither ; 

]SJ"ae mither or friend the puir lammie can see ; 
I fear 1 ha'e tint my puir heart a'thegither, 

ISTae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee. 

Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon, 

The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie ga'e me ; 
Yestreen, when he ga'e me 't, and saw I was sabbin', 

I '11 never forget the wae blink o' his ee. 
Though now he said naething but Fare-ye-weel, Lucy 1 

It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see ; 
He cudna say mair but just, Fare-ye-Aveel, Lucy ! 

Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee. 
0* 



106 SIXGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew vrhen its droukit ; 

The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lea ; 
But Lucy likes Jamie ; — she turned and she lookit, 

She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. 
Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless. 

And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn ; 
For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless. 

Lies cauld in her graye, and will never return. 

WiLLiAii Laidlaw. 



E Ui'tang for 13oneraile» 

Alas ! how dismal is my tale ! — 
I lost my watch in Doneraile ; 
My Dublin watch, my chain and seal. 
Pilfered at once in Doneraile. 

May fire and brimstone never fail 
To fall in showers on Doneraile ; 
May aU the leading fiends assail 
The thieving town of Doneraile. 

As lightnings flash across the vale, 
So down to heU with Doneraile ; 
The fate of Pompey at Pharsale, 
Be that the curse of Doneraile. 

May beef or mutton, lamb or veal. 
Be never found in Doneraile ; 
But garhc soup, and scurvy kail, 
Be still the food for Doneraile. 

And forward as the creeping snail 
Th' industry be of Doneraile ; 
May Heaven a chosen curse entail 
On rigid, rotten Doneraile. 

May sun and moon forever faQ 
To beam their lights in Doneraile ; 



A LITANY FOR BONERAILK 107 

May every pestilential gale 

Blast that cursed spot called Doneraile. 

May no sweet cuckoo, thrush, or quail, 
Be ever heard in Doneraile ; 
May patriots, kings, and commonweal, 
Despise and harass Doneraile. 

May every Post, G-azette, and Mail 
Sad tidings bring of Doneraile ; 
May loudest thunders ring a peal, 
To blind and deafen Doneraile. 

May vengence fall at head and tail, 
From north to south, at Doneraile ; 
May profit light, and tardy sale. 
Still damp the trade of Doneraile. 

May Fame resound a dismal tale. 
Whene'er she lights on Doneraile ; 
May Egypt's plagues at once prevail, 
To thin the knaves of Doneraile. 

May frost and snow, and sleet and hail. 
Benumb each joint in Doneraile ; 
May wolves and bloodhounds trace and ti'ail 
The cursed crew of Doneraile. 

May Oscar, with his fiery flail. 
To atoms thresh all Doneraile ; 
May every mischief, fresh and stale, 
Abide, henceforth, in Doneraile. 

May all, from Belfast to Kinsale, 
Scoff, curse, and damn you, Doneraile ; 
May neither flour nor oatenmeal 
Be found or known in Doneraile. 



1 8 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

May want and wo each joy curtail 
That e'er was known in Doneraile ; 
May no one coffin want a nail, 
That wraps a rogue in Doneraile. 

May all the thieves that rob and steal, 
The gallows meet in Doneraile ; 
May all the sons of Grranaweal 
Blush at the thieves of Doneraile. 

May mischief big as Norway whale 
O'erwhelm the knaves of Doneraiie; 
May curses, wholesale and retail, 
Pour with full force on Doneraile. 

May every transport wont to sail, 
A convict bring from Doneraile ; 
May every churn and milking-pail 
Fall dry to staves in Doneraile. 

May cold and hunger still congeal 
The stagnant blood of Doneraile ; 
May every hour new woes reveal, 
That hell reserves for Doneraile. 

May every chosen ill prevail 
O'er all the imps of Doneraile ; 
May no one wish or prayer avail 
To soothe the woes of Doneraile. 



th' Inquisition straight impale 
The rapparees of Doneraile ; 
May Charon's boat triumphant sail, 
Completely manned from Doneraile. 

Oh ! may my couplets never fail 
To find a curse for Doneraile ; 
And may grim Pluto's inner jail 
For ever groan with Doneraile. 

Patrick O'Kelly. 



THE PHILOSOPHERS SCALES. 109 

'T WAS in heaven pronounced, and 't was muttered in hell, 

And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell ; 

On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest, 

And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed. 

'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven asunder, 

Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder. 

'T was allotted to man with his earliest breath, 

Attends him at birth, and awaits him in death. 

Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health, 

Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. 

In the heaps of the miser 't is hoarded with care, 

But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. 

It begins every hope, every wish it must bound. 

With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crowned. 

Without it the soldier, the seamari. may roam ; 

But woe to the wretch who expels it from home ! 

In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, 

Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. 

'T will not soften the heart; but, though deaf be the ear. 

It will make it acutely and instantly hear. 

Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower, 

Ah ! breathe on it softly — it dies in an hour. 

Catherine Fanshawe. 

CJe Ui'lciscipjer'is Scales* 

A MONK, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er. 

In the depths of his cell with its stone-covered floor. 

Resigning to thought his chimerical brain. 

Once formed the contrivance we now shall explain ; 

But whether by magic's or alchemy's powers 

We know not ; indeed, 't is no business of ours. 

Perhaps it was only by patience and care, 
At last, that he brought his invention to bear. 
10 



1 1 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

In youth 't was projected, but years stole away, 
And ere 't was complete he was wrinkled and gray ; 
But success is secure, unless energy fails ; 
And at length he produced the Philosopher's Scales. 

" What were they ? " you ask. You shall presently see ; 
These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea. 
no ; for such properties wondrous had they, 
That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could weigh, 
Together with articles small or immense, 
From mountains or planets to atoms of sense. 

Xaught was there so bulky but there it would lay, 
And naught so ethereal but there it would stay, 
And naught so reluctant but in it must go : 
All which some examples more clearly will show. 

The first thing he weighed was the head of Yoltahe, 
Which retained all the wit that had ever been there. 
As a weight, he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf, 
Containing the prayer of the penitent thief ; 
When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell 
That it bounced like a ball on the roof of the cell. 

One time he put in Alexander the Great, 
With a garment that Dorcas had made for a weight ; 
And though clad in armor fi'om sandals to crown. 
The hero rose up, and the garment went down. 

A long row of alms-houses, amply endowed 

By a well-esteemed Pharisee, busy and proud. 

Next loaded one scale ; while the other was pressed 

By those mites the poor widow dropped into the chest ; 

Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce, 

And down, down the farthing-worth came with a bounce. 

By further experiments (no matter how) 

lie found that ten chariots weighed less than one plough ; 



A MODEST WIT. m 

A sword with gilt trapping rose up in the scale, 
Though balanced by only a ten-penny nail ; 
A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear, 
"Weighed less than a widow's uncrystallized tear. 

A lord and a lady went up at full sail. 

When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale ; 

Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl. 

Ten counselors' wigs, full of powder and curl, 

All heaped in one balance and swinging from thence, 

Weighed less than a few grains of candor and sense ; 

A first-water diamond, with brilliants begirt, 

Than one good potato just washed from the dirt; 

Yet not mountains of silver and gold could suffice 

One pearl to outweigh, — 't was the Pearl of G-reat Price. 

Last of all, the whole world was bowled in at the grate, 
With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight. 
When the former sprang up with so strong a rebuff 
That it made a vast rent and escaped at the roof ! 
When balanced in air, it ascended on high, 
And sailed up aloft, a balloon in the sky ; 
While the scale with the soul in 't so mightily fell 
That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell. 

Jane Taylor. 



A SUPERCILIOUS nabob of the East — 

Haughty, being great — ^purse-proud, being rich- 
A governor, or general, at the least, 

I have forgotten which — • 
Had in his family a humble youth. 

Who went from England in his patron's suite, 
An unassuming boy, in truth 

A lad of decent parts, and good repute. 



1 1 2 SIXGLE FAJIO US P OEMS. 

This youth had sense and spirit ; 

But yet with all his sense, 

Excessive diffidence 
Obscured his merit. 

One day, at table, flushed with pride and ^\ine, 
His honor, proudly free, severely merry 

Conceived it would be vastly fine 
To crack a joke upon his secretary. 

"Young man," he said, "by what art, craft or trade, 

Did your good father gain a livehhood? " — 
" He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, 
"And in his time was reckon'd good." 

" A saddler, eh! and taught you G-reek, 
Instead of teaching you to sew ! 
Pray, why did not your father make 
A saddler, sir, of you ? " 

Each parasite, then, as in duty bound. 

The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. 

At length Modestus, bowing low, 
Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), 
" Sir, by your leave, I fain would know 
Your father's trade ! " 

" My father's trade ! by heaven, that 's too bad ! 
My father's trade ? Why, blockhead, are you mad ? 
My father, sir, did never stoop so low — 
He was a gentleman, I 'd have you know." 

" Excuse the Hberty I take," 

Modestus said, with archness on his brow, 
'•' Pray, why did not your father make 

A gentleman of you ? " 

Selleck Osborne. 



SAINT PA TRICK l ] 3 

Saint latriclt* 

St. Patrick was a gentleman, 

Who came of decent people ; 
He built a cliurch in Dublin town, 

And on it put a steeple. 
His father was a G-allagher ; 

His mother was a Brady ; 
His aunt was an O'Shaughnessj, 

His uncle an O'G-rady. 
So, success attend St. Patrick's fist. 

For he 's a saint so clever ; 
Oh ! he gave the snakes and toads a twist, 

And bothered them forever ! 

The Wicklow hills are very high, 

And so 's the hill of Howth, sir ; 
But there 's a hill, much bigger still, 

Much higher nor them both, sir : 
'T was on the top of this high hill 

St. Patrick preached his sarmint 
That drove the frogs into the bogs, 

And banished all the varmint. 

There 's not a mile in Ireland's isle 

Where dirty varmin musters. 
But where he put his dear fore-foot, 

And murdered them in clusters. 
The toads went pop, the frogs went hop, 

Slap-dash into the water; 
And the snakes committed suicide 

To save themselves from slaughter. 

Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue 

He charmed with sweet discourses, 
And dined on them at Killaloe 

In soups and second courses. 



] 1 4: SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS 

Where blind-worms crawling in the grass 

Disgusted all the nation, 
He gave them a rise, which opened their eyes 

To a sense of their situation. 

No wonder that those Irish lads 

Should be so gay and frisky. 
For sure St. Pat he taught them that. 

As well as making whiskey ; 
No wonder that the saint himself 

Should understand distilling, 
Since his mother kept a shebeen-shop 

In the town of Enniskillen. 

0, w^as I but so fortunate 

As to be back in Munster, 
'T is I 'd be bound that from that ground 

I never more would once stir. 
For there St. Patrick planted turf. 

And plenty of the praties, 
With pigs galore, ma gra, ma 'store, 

And cabbages — and ladies. 
So, success attend St. Patrick's fist, 

For he 's a saint so clever ; 
0, he gave the snakes and toads a twist 

And bothered them forever ! 

Henry Benxltt. 



A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, 
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow ; 

Long had I watched the glory moving on, 
O'er the still radiance of the lake below : 

Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow, 
E'en in its very motion there was rest. 

While every breath of eve that chanced to blow. 



THE BUCKET. 115 

Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west. 
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul, 

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, 
And by the breath of mercy made to roll 

Eight onward to the golden gates of heaven, 
While to the eye of faith it peaceful hes, 
And tells to man his glorious destinies. 

John Wilson. 



How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 
When fond recollection presents them to view ! — 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood. 
And every loved spot which my infancy knew ! 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it ; 
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it ; 
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure ; 
For often at noon, when returned from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure — 
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing. 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ! 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing. 
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it. 
As, poised on the curb, it inchned to my lips ! 
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. 



116 SIXGLE FAJrPjrS POEMS. 

And noWj far removed from the lored habitation, 
The tear of regret will intmsivelj swell, 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-coTered bucket that hangs in the weK ! 

Samuel Woodwoeth. 

I SATO to sorrows awful storm, 

That beat against mj breast, 
Eage on ! — thou maj'st destroy this form, 

And lay it low at rest ; 
But still the spirit that now brooks 

Thy tempest, raging high, 
Undaunted on its fury looks, 

With steadfast eye. 

I said to penury's meagre train, 

Come on ! your threats I brave ; 
My last poor life-drop you may drain, 

And crush me to the grave : 
Yet still the spirit that endures 

Shall mock your force the while, 
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours 

Wiih bitter smile. 

I said to cold neglect and scorn, 

Pass on ! I heed you not ; 
Te may pursue me till my form 

And being are forgot ; 
Yet still the spirit which you see 

Undaunted by your wiles, 
Draws from its own nobility 

Its high-bom smiles. 



THE MITHEBLES8 BAIRK 117 

I said to friendship's menaced blow, 

Strike deep ! my heart shall bear ; 
Thou canst but add one bitter woe 

To those already there ; 
Yet still the spirit that sustains 

This last severe distress, 
Shall smile upon its keenest pains, 

And scorn redress. 

I said to death's uplifted dart, 

Aim sure ! oh, why delay ? 
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart — 

A weak, reluctant prey ; 
For still the spirit, firm and free. 

Unruffled by this last dismay, 
Wrapt in its own eternity. 

Shall pass away. 

Lavinia Stoddard. 

When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame 
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, 
Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin' ? 
'T is the puir doited loonie, — the mitherless bairn. 

The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed ; 
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head ; 
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn. 
And litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. 

Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, 
0' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair ; 
But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, 
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn. 

Yon sister that seng o'er his saftly rocked bed 
Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid ; 
10* 



118 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, 
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. 

Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth. 
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth ; 
Eecording in heaven the blessings they earn 
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn. 

0, speak him na harshly, — he trembles the while. 
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile ; 
In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn, 
That Grod deals the blow for the mitherless bairn. 

William Thom. 

Stanzas* 

My life is like the summer rose 

That opens to the morning sky, 
But, ere the shades of evening close, 

Is scattered on the ground — to die ! 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
As if she wept the waste to see, — 
But none shall weep a tear for me ! 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray ; 
Its hold is frail — its date is brief, 

Eestless — and soon to pass away ! 
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade. 
The parent tree will mourn its shade. 
The winds bewail the leafless tree, — 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints which feet 
Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 

Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 
All trace will vanish from the sand; 



AFAR IN THE DESERT, ] 19 

Yet, as if grieving to efface 

All vestige of the human race, 

On that lone shore loud moans the sea,— 

But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 

Richard Henry Wilde. 

ilfar m t^e Mt^ttt 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 

"With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, 

When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast. 

And, sick of the present, I cling to the past ; 

When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, 

From the fond recollections of former years ; 

And shadows of things that have long since fled 

Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead : 

Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon ; 

Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon ; 

Attachments by fate or falsehood reft ; 

Companions of early days lost or left — 

And my native land — whose magical name 

Thrills to the heart like electric flame ; 

The home of my childhood ; the haunts of my prime ; 

All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time 

When the feelings were young, and the world was new, 

Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view ; 

All — all now forsaken — forgotten — foregone ! 

And I — a lone exile remembered of none — 

My high aims abandoned, — my good acts undone — 

Aweary of all that is under the sun — 

With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, 

I fly to the desert afar from man. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 

When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life. 

With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife— 



120 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear, 
The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear. 
And mahce, and meanness, and falsehood, and follj, 
Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy ; 
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, 
And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh, — 
0, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, 
Afar in the desert alone to ride ! 
There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, 
And to bound away with the eagle's speed, 
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand, — 
The only law of the Desert Land ! 

Afar in the desert I lore to ride, 

"With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, 

Away, away from the dwellings of men. 

By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; 

By valleys remote where the oribi plays, 

Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze, 

And the kudu and eland unhunted recline 

By the skirts of gray forest o'erhung with wild vine ; 

Where the elephant browses at peace in his Avood, 

And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood, 

And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at Avill 

In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 
O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry 
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively; 
And the timorous quagga's shrill whisthng neigh 
Is heard by the fountain at twiUght gray ; 
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane. 
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; 
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste 
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, 
Hieing away to the home of her rest, 
Where she and her mate have scooped their nest, 



AFAR IN THE DESEBT. 121 

Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view 
In the patliless depths of the parched karroo. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, 
Away, away, in the wilderness vast 
Where the white man's foot hath never passed, 
And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan 
Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan, — 
A region of emptiness, howling and drear, 
Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear ; 
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, 
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone ; 
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root. 
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ; 
And the bitter-melon, for food and drink, 
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink; 
A region of drought, where no river glides, 
JSTor rippling brook with osiered sides ; 
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbhng fount, 
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, 
Appears, to refresh the aching eye ; 
But the barren earth and the burning sky, 
And the blank horizon, round and round, 
Spread, — void of living sight or sound. 
And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, 
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, 
As I sit apart by the desert stone. 
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, 
'A still small voice " comes through the wild 
(Like a father consoling his fretful child). 
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, 
Saying, — Man is distant, but God is near ! 

Thomas Pringle. 
11 



122 SIXGLE FA2I0 US POE^IS. 

Oje 13cacon, 

TnE scene "^as more beautiful far to the eye, 

Than if day in its pride had arrayed it : 
The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arched sky 

Looked pure as the spirit that made it : 
The murmur rose soft, as I silently gazed 

On the shadowy waves' playful motion, 
From the dim distant hill. tiU the hght-house fire blazed 

Like a star in the midst of the ocean. 

!N"o longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast 

Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers ; 
The sea-bhd had flown to her wave-girdled nest. 

The fisherman sunk to his slumbers : 
One moment I looked fi'om the hill's gentle slope. 

All hushed was the billows' commotion, 
And o'er them the light-house looked lovely as hope, — ■ 

That star of life's tremulous ocean. 

The time is long past, and the scene is afar, 

Yet when my head rests on its pillow, 
Will memory sometimes rekindle the star 

That blazed on the breast of the billow : 
In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, 

And death stills the heart's last emotion : 
0, then may the seraph of mercy arise, 

Like a star on eternity's ocean ! 

P. :M. James. 



iHortalitg, 

WHY should the spirit of mortal be proud? 
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, 
He passes from hfe to liis rest in the grave. 



.MORTALITY. 123 

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 
Be scattered around and together be laid; 
And the young and the old, and the low and the high, 
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. 

The child that a mother attended and loved, 
The mother that infant's affection that proved. 
The husband that mother and infant that blessed. 
Each, all, are away to their dwelhng of rest. 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, 
Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are by; 
And the memory of those that beloved her and praised 
Are ahke from the minds of the living erased. 

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne. 
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn. 
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, 
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. 

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, 
The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, 
The beggar that wandered in search of his bread, 
Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 

The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven, 
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven, 
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 

So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed 
That wither away to let others succeed ; 
So the multitude comes, even those we behold. 
To repeat every tale that hath often been told. 

For we are the same that our fathers have been ; 
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen, — 
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, 
And we run the same course that our fathers have run. 



124 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think ; 
From the death we are shrinking from, they too would 

shrink ; 
To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling ; 
But it speeds from the earth Uke a bird on the wing. 

They loved, but then- story we cannot unfold ; 
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; 
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come ; 
They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb. 

They died, ay ! they died ! and we things that are now, 
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, 
Who make in their dweUings a transient abode, 
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. 

yea ! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, 
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain ; 
And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge, 
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 

'T is the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath, 
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death. 
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, — 
why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 

William Knox. 



"You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who 
stood 

While he sat on a corn-sheaf, a-t daylight's decline, — 
"You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood: 

I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine." 

"And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said, 
While an arch smile played over her beautiful face. 



TF-E'iZ GO TO SEA NO MORE. 125 

" I would blow it," he answered, " and then my fan- maid 
Would fly to my side and would there take her place." 

" Is that all you wish for ? Why, that may be yours 
Without any magic ! " the fair maiden cried: 

"A favor so slight one's good-nature secures; " 
And she playfully seated herself by his side. 

" I would blow it again," said the youth ; " and the charm 
Would work so that not even modesty's check 
Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm." 
She smiled and she laid her white arm round his neck. 

" Tet once more I would blow; and the music divine 
Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss, — 
You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine ; 
And your lips steahng past it would give me a kiss." 

The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee, — 
" What a fool of yourself with the whistle you 'd make ! 
For only consider how silly 't would be 

To sit there and whistle for what you might take." 

Egbert Story. 



W^t m <§o to Sea no M^xt. 

0, BLITHELY shiucs the bonny sun 

Upon the Isle of May, 
And bhthely comes the morning tide 

Into St. Andrew's Bay. 
Then up, gudeman, the breeze is fair, 

And up, VTij braw bairns three ; 
There 's goud in yonder bonny boat 

That sails sae weel the sea ! 

When haddocks leave the Firth o' Forth, 
An' mussels leave the shore. 



126 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. 

When oysters climb up Berwick Law, 
We '11 go to sea no more, — 

No more, 
We 'U go to sea no more. 

I Ve seen the waves as blue as air, 

I 've seen them green as grass ; 
But I never feared their heaving yet, 

From G-rangemouth to the Bass. 
I 've seen the sea as black as pitch, 

I 've seen it white as snow ; 
But I never feared its foaming yet, 
Though the winds blew high or low. 
When squalls capsize our wooden walls, 

When the French ride at the Nore, 
When Leith meets Aberdour half way. 
We 'U go to sea no more, — 

No more. 
We '11 go to sea no more. 

I never liked the landsman's life. 

The earth is aye the same ; 
Gie me the ocean for my dower, 

My vessel for my hame, 
Gie me the fields that no man plows. 

The farm that pays no fee ; 
Grie me the bonny fish that glance 
So gladly through the sea. 

When sails hang flapping on the masts 
While through the waves we snore, 
When in a calm we 're tempest-tossed, 
We '11 go to sea no more, — 

No more, 
We '11 go to sea no more. 

The sun is up, and round Inchkeith 
The breezes softly blaw ; 



GEEEALE. 127 

The gudeman has the lines on board, — 

Awa, my bairns, awa ! 
An' ye be back by gioamin' gray, 

An' bright the fire will low, 
An' in your tales and sangs we '11 tell 
How weel the boat ye row. 

When life's last sun gaes feebly down, 

An' death comes to our door, 
When a' the world 's a dream to us, 
We '11 go to sea no more,— 

No more, 
We '11 go to sea no more. 

Miss Corbett. 



The blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore, 

As sweetly and gayly as ever before ; 

For he knows to his mate he at pleasure can hie. 

And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. 

The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright. 

And reflects o'er the mountains as beamy a light 

As it ever reflected, or ever expressed, 

When my skies were the bluest, my dreams were the best. 

The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, 

Eetire to their dens on the gleaming of light. 

And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track. 

For they know that their mates are expecting them back. 

Each bird and each beast, it is blessed in degree ; 

All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me. f 

I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair ; 

I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair ; 

I will sit on the shore where the hurricane blows, 

And reveal to the god of the tempest -my woes ; 

I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed. 

For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead ; 



128 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

But they died not by hunger, or hngering decay — 
The steel of the white man hath swept them away. 

Tills snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore, 

I will toss with disdain to the storm-beaten shore ; 

Its charms I no longer obey or invoke. 

Its spirit hath left me, its speU is now broke. 

I will raise up my voice to the source of the light ; 

I win dream on the wings of the blue-bird at night ; 

I win speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves. 

And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves ; 

And will take a new Manito, such as shall seem 

To be kind and propitious in every dream. 

0, then I shall banish these cankering sighs, 

And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes ; 

I shall wash from my face every cloud-colored stain ; 

Red, red shall alone on my visage remain ! 

I wiU dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow ; 

By night and by day I will follow the foe ; 

Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor sno^vs ; 

His blood can alone give my spirit repose. 

They came to my cabin when heaven was black ; 
I heard not their coming, I knew not their track ; 
But I saw, by the light of their blazing fusees. 
They were people engendered beyond the big seas. 
My wife and my children — 0, spare me the tale ! 
Eor who is there left that is kin to GTeehale ? 

Hexet Rowe Schoolcraft. 



1 m^ouVa not Hi'be Elbag* 

I would not hve alway : I ask not to stay 
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way ; 
Where, seeking for rest, I but hover around 
Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found ; 



I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAT. 129 

Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air, 
Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night of despair, 
And Joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray, 
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away. 

I would not live alway, thus fettered by sin, 
Temptation without, and corruption within ; 
In a moment of strength if I sever the chain, 
Scarce the victory 's mine ere I 'm captive again. 
E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears, 
And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears. 
The festival trump calls for jubilant songs, 
But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. 

I would not live alway : no, welcome the tomb ; 

Immortality's lamp burns there bright 'mid the gloom. 

There too is the pillow where Christ bowed his head — 

0, soft be my slumbers on that holy bed ! 

And then the glad morn soon to foUow that night. 

When the sunrise of glory shall burst on my sight, 

And the full matin-song, as the sleepers arise 

To shout in the morning, shall peal through the skies. 

Who, who would live alway, away from his Grod, 
Away from yon heaven, that bhssful abode, 
Where rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, 
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns ; 
Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet. 
Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet, 
While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll. 
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul ? 

That heavenly music 1 what is it I hear ? 
The notes of the harpers ring sweet on my ear. 
And see soft unfolding those portals of gold, 
The King all arrayed in his beauty behold ! 
11* 



130 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

give me, give me the v^ings of a dove ! 

Let me hasten my flight to those mansions above. 

Ay, 't is now that my soul on swift pinions would soar, 

And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore. 

William Augustus Muhlenberg. 

flines W^xxiUxi in a (Kf)urcS^gart». 

"It is good for us to be here. If thou wilt, let us make here three 
tahernacles ; one for thee, oae for Moses, and one for Elias." 

Methinks it is good to be here ; 
If thou wilt, let us build — but for whom ? 

Nor Elias nor Moses appear ; 
But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom 
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. 

Shall we build to Ambition ? Ah no ! 
Affrighted he shrinketh away ; 

For see, they would pen him below 
In a small narrow cave and begirt with cold clay. 
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 

To Beauty ? Ah no ! she forgets 
The charms which she wielded before ; 

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets " 
The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, 
Por the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. 

Shall we build to the purple of pride ? 
To the trappings which dizen the proud ? 

Alas ! they are all laid aside. 
And here 's neither dress nor adornment allowed, 
But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud 

To Eiches ? Alas, 't is in vain ! 
Who hid, in their turns have been hid : 
The treasures are squandered again ; 



TEE MARINER'S DREAM. 131 

And here in the grave are all metals forbid. 
But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid. 

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, 
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer ? 

Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! 
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, 
And none but the worm is a reveler here. 

Shall we build to Affection and Love ? 
Ah no ! they have withered and died, 

Or fled with the spirit above. 
Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, 
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 

Unto Sorrow ? — the dead cannot grieve ; 
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, 

Which compassion itself could relieve. 
Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear ; 
Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here. 

TJnto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ? 
Ah no ! for his empire is known, 

And here there are trophies enow ! 
Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone, 
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. 

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build. 
And look for the sleepers around us to rise ; 

The second to Faith, that insures it fulfilled ; 
And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, 
Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. 

Herbert Knowles. 

C5e JHarmn's Bream, 

In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay ; 
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind ; 



132 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

But watcli-worn and weary, his cares flew away, 
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 

He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers. 
And pleasures that waited on hfe's merry morn ; 

While memory stood sideways haK covered with flowers, 
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 

Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, 
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; 

Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, 
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch. 

And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall ; 

All trembling with transport he raises the latch. 
And the voices of loved ones reply to his caU. 

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight; 

His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear ,* 
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. 

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast ; 

Joy quickens his pulses, — ^his hardships seem o'er; 
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest, — 
" Grod ! thou hast blest me, — I ask for no more." 

Ah ! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye ? 

Ah ! what is that sound which now 'larms on Ms ear ? 
'T is the lightning's red gleam, painting heU on the sky 1 

'T is the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere I 

He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck ; 

Amazement confronts him with images dire ; 
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a-wreck; 

The masts fly in splinters ; the shrouds are on fire. 



OLD GBIMES. 133 

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell ; 

In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ; 
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, 

And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave ! 

sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight ! 

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bhss. 
Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, — 

Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss? 

sailor-boy ! sailor-boy ! never again 

Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ; 

Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, 
Pull many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. 

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, 
Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge, 

But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, 
And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge 1 

On a bed of green sea-flowers thy hmbs shall be laid, — 
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; 

Of thy fair yellow locks tlireads of amber be made, 
And every part suit to thy mansion below. 

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, 
And stiU the vast waters above thee shall roll ; 

Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye, — 
sailor-boy ! sailor-boy ! peace to thy soul ! 

William Dimond. 

Old G-rimes is dead; that good old man 

We never shall see more ; 
He used to wear a long, black coat, 

All buttoned down before. 



12 



134 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS 

His heart was open as the day, 
His feelings all were true ; 

His hair was some inclined to gray, , 
He wore it in a queue. 

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, 
His breast with pity burned ; 

The large, round head upon his cane 
From ivory was turned. 

Kind words he ever had for all, 
He knew no base design ; 

His eyes were dark and rather small, 
His nose was aquiline. 

He lived at peace with all mankind, 
In f riendsliip he was true ; 

His coat had pocket-holes behind. 
His pantaloons were blue. 

Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes 

He passed securely o'er, 
And never wore a pair of boots 

For thirty years or more. 

But good old G-rimes is now at rest, 
Nor fears misfortune's frown; 

He wore a double-breasted vest — 
The stripes ran up and down. 

He modest merit sought to find, 

And pay it its desert ; 
He had no malice in his mind. 

No ruffles on his shirt. 

His neighbors he did not abuse. 

Was sociable and gay ; 
He wore large buckles on his shoes, 

And changed them every day. 



THE CLOSING TEAR. 135 

His knowledge, hid from public gaze, 

He did not bring to view, 
Nor make a noise town-meeting days, 

As many people do. 

His worldly goods lie never threw 
^^ In trust to fortune's chances, 
^..^ut lived (as all his brothers do) 
In easy circumstances. 

Thus undisturbed by anxious cares 

His peaceful moments ran ; 
And everybody said he was 

A fine old gentleman. 

Albert GtOrton Greene. 

CJe (O^losmg ¥ear» " 

'T IS midnight's holy hour, — and silence now 

Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er 

The still and pulseless world. Hark ! on the winds 

The bell's deep tones are swelling, — 't is the knell 

Of the departed year. No funeral train 

Is sweeping past ; yet, on the stream and wood, 

With melancholy light, the moon-beams rest 

Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is stirred 

As by a mourner's sigh ; and on yon cloud 

That floats so still and placidly through heaven, 

The spirits of the seasons seem to stand, — 

Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, 

And Winter with its aged locks, — and breathe, 

In mournful cadences that come abroad 

Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, 

A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, 

Gone from the Earth forever. 

'T is a time 
For memory and for tears. Within the deep, 



136 SINGLE FAMOUS F OEMS. 

Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, 

Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time 

Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold 

And solemn finger to the beautiful 

And holy visions that have passed away, 

And left no shadow of their loveliness 

On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts 

The cofl&n-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, 

And, bending mournfully above the pale. 

Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters dead flowers 

O'er what has passed to nothingness. 

The year 
Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng 
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, 
Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course, 
It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, — 
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand 
Upon the strong man, — and the haughty form 
Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. 
It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged 
The bright and joyous, — and the tearful wail 
Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song 
And reckless shout resounded. 

It passed o'er 
The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield, 
Flashed in the Hght of midday, — and the strength 
Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, 
Green from the soil of carnage, waves above 
The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came, 
And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; 
Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, 
It heralded its millions to their home 
In the dim land of dreams. 

Remorseless Time ! 
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! — what power 



THE CLOSING YEAB. 13 7 

Can stay him in his silent course, or melt 
His iron heart to pity ? On, still on, 
He presses, and forever. The proud bird. 
The condor of the Andes, that can soar 
Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave 
The fury of the northern hurricane, 
And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, 
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down 
To rest upon his mountain crftg, — but Time 
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness. 
And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind 
His rushing pinions. 

Revolutions sweep 
O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast 
Of dreaming sorrow, — cities rise and sink 
Like bubbles on the water, — fiery isles 
Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back 
To their mysterious caverns, — mountains rear 
To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow 
Their tall heads to the plain, — new empires rise, 
G-athering the strength of hoary centuries, 
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche. 
Startling the nations, — and the very stars, 
Yon bright and burning blazonry of Grod, 
Grlitter a while in their eternal depths, 
And, hke the Pleiad, loveliest of their train. 
Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away 
To darkle in the trackless void. Yet, Time, 
Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, 
Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not 
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, 
To sit and muse, like other conquerors. 
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. 

George Denison Prentice. 



138 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. 

I FILL this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon ; 
To whom the better elements 

And kindly stars have given 
A form so fair, that, hke the air, 

'T is less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own. 

Like those of morning birds, 
And something more than melody 

Dwells ever in her words ; 
The coinage of her heart are they. 

And from her Ups each flows 
As one may see the burdened bee 

Forth issue from the rose. 

Affections are as thoughts to her, 

The measures of her hours ; 
Her feelings have the fragrancy, 

The freshness of young flowers ; 
And lovely passions, changing oft. 

So fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves by turns, — 

The idol of past years ! 

Of her bright face one glance will trace 

A picture on the brain, 
And of her voice in echoing hearts 

A sound must long remain ; 
But memory, such as mine of her. 

So very much endears. 
When death is nigh my latest si^-h 

Will not be life's, but hers. 



TEE THREE SONS. 139 

I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon, — 
Her health ! and would on earth there stood 

Some more of such a frame, 
That life might be all poetry. 

And weariness a name. 

Edward Coate Pinkney. 



I HAVE a son, a httle son, a boy just five years old, 

With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle 

mould. 
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, 
That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his child- 
ish years. 
I cannot say how this may be ; I know his face is fair — 
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious 

air: 
I know his heart is fond and kind ; I know he loveth me : 
But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency. 
But that which others most admire, is the thought which 

fills his mind, 
The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth 

find. 
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together 

walk; 
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children 

talk. 
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or 

ball. 
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics 

all. 
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed 



140 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. 

With thouglits about this world of ours, and thoughts about 

the next. 
He kneels at Ms dear mother's knee ; she teacheth him to 

pray; 
And strang'e, and sweet, and solemn then are the words 

which he will say. 
0, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years 

like me, 
A hoHer and a wiser man I trust that he will be ; 
And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful 

brow, 
I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. 

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; 

I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, 

How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on 

my knee ; 
I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, 
'Not his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever 

been; 
But his little heart 's a fountain pure of kind and tender feel- 
ing; 
And his every look 's a gleam of light, rich depths of love 

reveahng. 
When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in 

the street, 
Will shout for joy and bless my boy, he looks so mild and 

sweet. 
A playfellow is he to all ; and yet, with cheerful tone. 
Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. 
His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and 

hearth, 
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. 
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may 

prove 
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly 

love ; 



TEE THTxEE SONS. 14] 

And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must 

dim, 
Grod comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him ! 

I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot tell, 

For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone 

to dwell. 
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were 

given ; 
And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in 

heaven. 
I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now, 
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph 

brow. 
The thoughts that fiU his sinless soul, the bhss which he 

doth feel, 
Are numbered with the secret things which God will not 

reveal. 
But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at 

rest. 
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving 

breast. 
I know his spirit feels no more this Aveary load of flesh, 
But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy forever 

fresh. 
I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering 

wings, 
And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's di- 

vinest things. 
I know that we shall meet oar babe (liis mother dear and I) 
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every 

eye. 
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never 

cease ; 
Their lot may here be grief and ^f ear, but his is certain 

peace. 
It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss 

ma v sever; 



142 SINGLE FAMOUS F OEMS. 

But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours forever. 
When we think of what our darhng is, and what we still 

must be — 
When we muse on that world's perfect bhss, and this 

world's misery — 
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief 

and pain — 
0! we 'd rather lose our other two, than have him here 

again. 

John Moultrie. 

I GAED to spend a week in Fife — 

An unco week it proved to be — 
For there I met a waesome wife 

Lamentin' her viduity. 
Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell, 
I thought her heart wad burst the shell ; 
And, — I was sae left to mysel, — 

I sell't her an annuity. 

The bargain lookit fair enough — 

She just was turned o' saxty-three — 

I couldna guessed she'd prove sae teugh, 
By human ingenuity. 

But years have come, and years have gane. 

And there she 's yet as stieve as stane — 

The limmer 's growin' young again. 
Since she got her annuity. 

She 's crined' awa' to bane and skin, 
But that, it seems, is nought to me ; 

She 's like to live — although she 's in 
The last stage o' tenuity. 

She munches wi' her wizen' d gums, 

An' stumps about on legs o' thrums ; 



THE ANNUITY. 143 

But comes, as sure as Christmas comes, 
To ca' for her annuity. 

I read the tables drawn wi' care 

For an insurance company ; 
Her chance o' Hfe was stated there, 

Wi' perfect perspicuity. 
But tables here or tables there, 
She 's lived ten years beyond her share, 
An' 's like to hve a dozen mair. 

To ca' for her annuity. 

Last Yule she had a fearf u' host, 
I thought a kink might set me free — 

I led her out, 'mang snaw and frost, 
Wi' constant assiduity. 

But deil ma' care — the blast gaed by, 

And miss'd the auld anatomy — 

It just cost me a tooth, for bye 
Discharging her annuity. 

If there 's a sough o' cholera, 

Or typhus, — wha sae gleg as she ? 
She buys up baths, an drugs, an' a'. 

In siccan superfluity ! 
She doesna need — she 's fever proof — 
The pest walked o'er her very roof — 
She tauld me sae — an' then her loof 

Held out for her annuity. 

Ae day she fell, her arm she brak — 

A compound fracture as could be — ■ 
Nae leech the cure wad undertake, 

Whate'er was the gratuity. 
It 's cured ! She handles 't like a flail — 
It does as weel in bits as hale — 
But I 'm a broken man mysel' 

Wi' her and her annuity. 



144 SIXGLE FAMOUS F OEMS. 

Her broozled flesh and broken banes 

Are weel as flesh and banes can be ; 
She beats the toads that hve in stanes, 

An' fatten in vacuity ! 
They die when they 're exposed to air, 
They canna thole the atmosphere — 
But her ! expose her ony where, 
She hves for her annuity. 

If mortal means could nick her thread, 

Sma' crime it wad appear to me — 
Ca't murder — or ca't homicide — 

I 'd justify 't — an' do it tae. 
But how to f eU a withered wife 
That 's carved out o' the tree of life — 
The timmer hmmer dares the knife 
To settle her annuity. 

I 'd try a shot — ^but whar's the mark? 

Her vital parts are hid frae me ; 
Her backbone wanders through her sark 

In an unkenn'd corkscrewity. 
She 's palsified, an' shakes her head 
Sae fast about, ye scarce can see 't, 
It 's past the power o' steel or lead 

To settle her annuity. 

She might be drowned ; but go she 'U not 
Within a mile o' loch or sea ; 

Or hanged — if cord could grip a throat 
0' siccan exiguity. 

It 's fitter far to hang the rope — 

It draws out like a telescope ; 

'T wad tak' a dreadfu' length o' drop 
To settle her annuity. 

Will poison do it ? It has been tried. 
But be 't in hash or fricassee, 



THE AK2WITY. 115 

That 's just the dish she can't abide, 

Whatever kind o' gout it hae. 
It 's needless to assail her doubts, 
She gangs by instinct, like the brutes, 
An' only eats an' drinks what suits 

Hersel' and her annuity. 

The Bible says the age o' man 

Threescore and ten, perchance, may be ] 

She 's ninety-four. Let them who can, 
Explain the incongruity. 

She should hae lived afore the flood — 

She 's come o' patriarchal blood, 

She 's some auld Pagan mummified 
Alive for her annuity. 

She 's been embalmed inside and oot — 

She 's sauted to the last degree — 
There 's pickle in her very snoot 

Sae caper-like an' cruety. 
Lot's wife was fresh compared to her — 
They 've kyanized the useless knir, 
She canna decompose — nae mair 

Than her accursed annuity. 

The water-drop wears out the rock, 

As this eternal jaud wears me; 
I could withstand the single shock, 

But not the continuity. 
It 's pay me here, an' pay me there. 
An' pay me, pay me, evermair — 
I '11 gang demented wi' despair — 

T 'm charged for her annuity. 

George Outram. 
13 



146 SIN/}LE FAJIO US P OEJIS. 

^f^^ dForging of tt)c Hnrijor. 

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 't is at a white heat 

now: 
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the 

forge's brow 
The little flames stfll fitfully play through, the sable mound ; 
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking 

round, 
AH clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare ; 
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass 

there. 

The windlass strains the tackle-chains, the black mound 
heaves below, 

And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe ; 

It rises, roars, rends aU outright, — Vulcan, what a glow ! 

'T is blinding white, 't is blasting bright, the high sun shines 
not so ! 

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful 
show, — 

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid 
row 

Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the 
foe; 

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the safling mon- 
ster slow 

Sinks on the anvil, — aU. about the faces fiery grow, — 

"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out:" bang, bang, 
the sledges go ; 

Hurrah ! the jetted hghtnings are hissing high and low ; 

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow ; 

The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the ratthng cinders 
strew 

The ground around ; at every bound the sweltering fount- 
ains flow ; 

And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, 
pant '• Ho ! " 



TEE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 147 

Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and lay on load ! 
Let 's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and broad ; 
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, 
And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road ; 
The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured 
From stem to stern, sea after sea, the mainmast by the 

board ; 
The l^ulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the 

chains, 
But courage still, brave mariners, the bower still remains, 
And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky- 
high. 
Then moves his head, as though he said, " Fear nothing, 

here am I ! " 
Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time, 
Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's 

chime ! 
But while you sling your sledges, sing; and let the burden 

be, 
The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal craftsmen we; 
Strike in, strike in, the sparks begin to dull their rustling 

red! 
Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be 

sped ; 
Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array 
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of 

clay; 
Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen 

here. 
For the Yeo-heave-o, and the Heave-away, and the sighing 

seaman's cheer ; 
When, weighing slow, at eve they go far, far from love and 

home, 
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. 

In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last. 
A shapely one he is, and strong as e'er from cat was cast. 



148 SIXGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life hke me, 
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep 



green sea 



deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as 

thou? 
The hoary monsters' palaces! methinks what joy 't were 

now 
To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the 

whales, 
And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their 

scourging tails ! 
Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea unicorn, 
And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory 

horn,; 
To leave the subtle sw order-fish of bony blade forlorn ; 
And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to 

scorn ; 
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid ISTorwegian 

isles 
He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles, 
Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls ; 
Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals 
Of his black-browsing ocean-calves, or haply in a cove 
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love, 
To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard by icy lands, 
To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. 



broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal 

tliiue ? 
The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable 

line ; 
And night by night 't is thy delight, thy glory day by day, 
Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play. 
But, shamer of our little sports, forgive the name I gave ! 
A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine office is to save. 
lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou but understand 



THE BELLS OF 8HAND ON. 149 

Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that drip- 
ping band, 

Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee 
bend, 

With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient 
friend — 

Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps 
round thee. 

Thine iron side would swell with pride; thou 'dst leap with- 
in the sea ! 

Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand, 

To shed their blood so freely for the love of Fatherland; 

Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard 
grave. 

So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave. 

Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, 

Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes among ! 

Samuel Ferguson. 



W^t iBells of <SSant(on» 

With deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shandon bells. 
Whose sounds so wild would, 
In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 

On this I ponder 
Where'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder. 

Sweet Cork, of thee, — 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 



150 SIXGLE FAMO US F OEMS. 

The plesant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

I Ve heard bells chiming 
Full manj a chme in, 
ToUing sublime in 

Cathedral shrine, 
While at a gUbe rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate ; 
But all their music 

Spoke naught hke thine. 

For memory, dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of thy belfry, knelling 

Its bold notes free, 
Made the beUs of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

I 've heard bells tolling 
Old Adrian's Mole in, 
Their thunder rolhng 

From the Yatican, — 
And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame ; 

But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Fhngs o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly. 
Oh! the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 



TEE DBA TE OF NAF OLEOK 151 

There 's a bell in Moscow ; 
While on tower and kiosk 
In St. Sophia 

The Turkman gets, 
Arid loud in air 
Calls men to prayer, 
From the tapering summit 

Of taU minarets. 

Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 
But there 's an anthem 

More dear to me, — 
'T is the bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

Francis Mahony. 



^Je Beats of NapoUon, 

Wild was the night, yet a wilder night 

Hung round the soldier's pillow ; 
In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight 

Than the fight on the wrathful billow. 

A few fond mourners were kneehng by, 
The few that his stern heart cherished ; 

They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye, 
That life had nearly perished. 

They knew by his awful and kingly look, 

By the order hastily spoken. 
That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, 

And the nations' hosts were broken. 



152 SINGLE FA2I0US POEMS. 

He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew, 
And triumphed the Frenchman's eagle, 

And the strugghng Austrian fled anew. 
Like the hare before the beagle. 

The bearded Russian he scourged again, 

The Prussian's camp was routed, 
And again on the hills of haughty Spain 

His mighty armies shouted. 

Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows, 

At the pyramids, at the mountain, 
Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows. 

And by the Itahan fountain, 

On the snowy cliffs where mountain streams 

Dash by the Switzer's dwelling, 
He led again, in his dying dreams, 

His hosts, the broad earth quelling. 

Again Marengo's field was won. 

And Jena's bloody battle ; 
Again the world was overrun. 

Made pale at his cannon's rattle. 

He died at the close of that darksome day, 

A day that shall live in story; 
In the rocky land they placed his clay, 
"And left htm alone with his glory." 

IssAG McClellan. 



On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows 
Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave, 

The hero hes still, while the dew-drooping willows, 
Like fond weeping mourners, lean over the grave. 



WW W MAL ONE. 153 

The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders rattle : 
He heeds not, he hears not, he 's free from all pain ; — 

He sleeps his last sleep — he has fought his last battle ! 
No sound can awake him to glory again ! 

shade of the mighty, where now are the legions 

That rush'd but to conquer when thou led'st them on ? 
Alas! they have perish'd in far hilly regions, 

And all save the fame of their triumph is gone I 
The trumpet may sound, and the loud cannon rattle ! 

They heed not, they hear not, they 're free from all pain : 
They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle ! 

No sound can awake them to glory again ! 

Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee, 

For, Uke thine own eagle that soar'd to the sun, 
Thou springest from bondage and leavest behind thee 

A name which before thee no mortal had won. 
Though nations may combat, and war's thunders rattle. 

No more on the steed wilt thou sweep o'er the plain : 
Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last battle ! 

No sound can awake thee to glory again ! 

Anonymous. 

Did you hear of the Widow Malone, 

Ohone ! 
Who hved in the town of Athlone, 
Alone ! 
0, she melted the hearts 
Of the swains in them parts, — 
So lovely the Widow Malone, 

Ohone ! 
So lovely the Widow Malone. 

Of lovers she had a full score, 
Or more, 
13* 



154 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

And fortunes th.ej all had galore, 
In store ; 
From the minister doMTi 
To the clerk of the Crown, 
All were courting the Widow Malone, 

Ohone ! 
All were courting the Widow Malone. 

But so modest was Mistress Malone, 

'T was known 
That no one could see her alone, 
Ohone ! 
Let them ogle and sigh, 
They could ne'er catch her eye, 
So bashful the Widow Malone, 

Ohone ! 
So bashful the Widow Malone. 

Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare, 

(How quare ! 
It 's httle for blushing they care 
Down there) 
Put his arm round her waist, — 
Grave ten kisses at laste, — 
" 0," says he, "you 're my Molly Malone, 

My ownl " 
"0," says he, "you 're my Molly Malone," 

And the widow they all thought so shy, 

My eye I 
Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, — 
For why ? 
But, "Lucius," says she, 
" Since you've now made so free, 
You may marry your Mary Malone, 

Ohone ! 
You may marry your Mary Malone." 



LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 155 

There 's a moral contained in my song, 

Not wrong ; 
And one comfoi't, it 's not very long, 
But strong : 
If for widows you die, 
Learn to kiss, not to sigh ; 
For they 're all like sweet Mistress Malone, 

Ohone ! 
0, they 're all like sweet Mistress Malone. 

Charles Lever. 



ilament cf tje Iri'isJ Emigrant* 

I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, 

Where we sat side by side, 
On a bright May mornin' long ago, 

When first you were my bride ; 
The corn was springin' fresh and green, 

And the lark sang loud and high ; 
And the red was on your lip, Mary, 

And the love-hght in your eye. 

The place is httle changed, Mary ; 

The day is bright as then ; 
The lark's loud song is in my ear. 

And the corn is green again ; 
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 

And your breath, warm on my cheek ; 
And I still keep list'nin' for the words 

You never more wiU speak. 

'T is but a step down yonder lane, 
And the little church stands near, 

The church where we were wed, Mary ; 
I see the spire from here. 

But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, 
And my step might break your rest, 



158 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. 

For I 've laid you, darling, down to sleep, 
With your baby on your breast. 

I 'm very lonely now, Mary — 

For the poor make no new friends ; 
But, 0, they love the better stiU 

The few our Father sends 1 
And you were all I had, Mary, 

My blessin' and my pride : 
There 's nothing left to care for now, 

Since my poor Mary died. 

Tours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 

That stm kept hoping on. 
When the trust in Qod had left my soul, 

And my arm's young strength was gone; 
There was comfort ever on your lip. 

And the kind look on your brow, 
I bless you, Mary, for that same, 

Though you cannot hear me now. 

I thank you for the patient smile 

When your heart was fit to break, 
When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there, 

And you hid it for my sake ; 
I bless you for the pleasant word, 

When your heart was sad and sore, 
Oh ! I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 

Where grief can't reach you more i 

I 'm biddin' you a long farewell, 

My Mary, kind and true ! 
But I '11 not forget you, darling, 

In the land I 'm goin' to ; 
They say there 's bread and work for all, 

And the sun shines always there, 
But I '11 not forget old Ireland, 

Were it fifty times as f ah ! 



THE ITAPP T LAND. 157 

And often in those grand old woods 

I '11 sit, and shut my eyes, 
And my heart will travel back again 

To the place where Mary lies ; 
And I '11 think I see the little stile 

Where we sat side by side, 
And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, 

When first you were my bride. 

Lady Dufferin. 

CJe ?gappg Uantr, 

There is a happy land, 

Far, far away. 
Where saints in glory stand, 

Bright, bright as day. 
Oh, how they sweetly sing. 
Worthy is our Saviour King; 
Loud let his praises ring — ■ 

Praise, praise for aye. 

Come to this happy land — 

Come, come away ; 
Why will ye doubting stand — 

Why stiU delay ? 
Oh, we shall happy be. 
When, from sin and sorrow free, 
Lord, we shall live with thee — 

Blest, blest for aye. 

Bright in that happy land 

Beams every eye : 
Kept by a Father's hand, 

Love cannot die. 
On then to glory run ; 
Be a crown and kingdom won ; 
And bright above the sun, 

Reign, reign for aye. 

Andrew Young. 



158 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS 

A JOLLY fat friar loved liquor good store, 

And he had drunk stoutly at supper ; 
He mounted his horse in the night at the door. 
And sat with his face to the crupper. 
" Some rogue," quoth the friar, " quite dead to remorse, 
Some thief, whom a halter will throttle, 
Some scoundrel has cut o£F the head of my horse, 
While I was engaged at the bottle, 

Which went gluggity, gluggity — glug — glug — glug," 

The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale, 

'T was the friar's road home, straight and level; 
But, when spurred, a horse follows his nose, not his tail, 
So he scampered due north hke a devil 
" This new mode of docking," the friar then said, 

" I perceive does n't make a horse trot ill; 
" And 't is cheap, for he never can eat off his head 
While I am engaged at the bottle, 

Which goes gluggity, gluggity— glug— glug— glug." 

The steed made a stop — in a pond he had got. 

He was rather for drinking than grazing ; 
Quoth the friar, " 'T is strange headless horses should trot. 

But to drink with their tails is amazing! " 
Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose. 

In the pond f eU. this son of a pottle ; 
Quoth he, " The head 's found, for I 'm under his nose, — ■ 

I wish I were over a bottle. 

Which goes gluggity, gluggity— glug— glug— glug."' 

A2f0NTM0US. 

JBere sf)e (^oes— anti CJere sje (goes. 

Two Yankee wags, one summer day, 
Stopped at a tavern on theh way ; 



HERE SHE GOES— AND THERE SHE GOES. 159 

Supped, frolicked, late retired to rest, 
And woke to breakfast on the best. 

The brealdast over, Tom and Will 
Sent for the landlord and the bill ; 
Will looked it over ; " Yery right — - 
But hold ! what wonder meets my sight ? 
Tom ! the surprise is quite a shock ! " 
" What wonder ? where ? " " The clock ! the clock ! " 

Tom and the landlord in amaze 
Stared at the clock with stupid gaze, 
And for a moment neither spoke ; 
At last the landlord silence broke : 

" You mean the clock that 's ticking there ? 
I see no wonder, I declare ; 
Though may be, if the truth were told, 
'T is rather ugly — somewhat old ; 
Yet time it keeps to haK a minute. 
But, if you please, what wonder 's in it? " 

" Tom, do n't you recollect," said Will, 

" The clock in Jersey near the mill. 
The very image of this present. 
With which I won the wager pleasant? " 
Win ended with a knowing wink — 
Tom scratched his head, and tried to tliink. 

" Sir, begging pardon for inquiring," 
The landlord said, with grin admiring, 

" What wager was it? " 

" You remember, 
It happened, Tom, in last December. 
In sport I bet a Jersey Blue 
That it was more than he could do. 
To make his finger go and come 



160 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS 

In keeping with the pendulum, 
Eepeating, till one hour should close, 
Still ' Here she goes — and there she goes ' — 
He lost the bet in half a minute." 

" Well, if I would, the deuce is in it! " 
Exclaimed the landlord; "try me yet, 
And fifty dollars be the bet." 

" Agreed, but we will play some trick 
To make you of the bargain sick! " 

''I 'mup to that!" 

" Do n't make us wait ; 
Begin, the clock is striking eight." 
He seats himself, and left and right 
His finger wags with all his might, 
And hoarse his voice, and hoarser grows, 
With " Here she goes — and there she goes I " 

'^ Hold," said the Yankee, " plank the ready ! " 
The landlord wagged his fingers steady 
While his left hand, as well as able, 
Conveyed a purse upon the table. 

" Tom, with the money let 's be off! " 
This made the landlord only scoff. 

He heard them running down the stair, 
But was not tempted from his chair. 
Thought he, " The fools ! I '11 bite them yet ! 
So poor a trick sha' n't win the bet." 
And loud and loud the chorus rose 
Of ^^ Here she goes — and there she goes! " 
While right and left his finger swung. 
In keeping to his clock and tongue. 

His mother happened in, to see 
Her daughter. " Where is Mrs. B — 
When will she come, as you suppose ? 
Son ! " 



HEBE SHE GOES- AND THERE SHE GOES. 161 



" Here ! where ? " — the lady in surprise 

His finger followed with her eyes; 
" Son, why that steady gaze and sad ? 

Those words — that motion — are you mad ? 

But here 's your wife — perhaps she knows, 

And—" 

" Here she goes — and there she goes ! " 

His wife surveyed him with alarm. 

And rushed to him and seized his arm ; 

He shook her off, and to and fro 

His finger persevered to go, 

While curled his very nose with ire. 

That she against him should conspire, 

And with more furious tone arose 

The " Here she goes — and there she goes ! " 

"Lawks! " screamed the wife, "I 'm in a whirl! 
Eun down and bring the little girl ; 
She is his darling, and who knows 
But—" 

'■'■Here she goes — and there she goes! " 

" Lawks ! he is mad ! What made him thus ? 
Good Lord ! what will become of us ? 
Eun for a doctor — run — run — run — 
For Doctor Brown, and Doctor Dun, 
And Doctor Black, and Doctor White, 
And Doctor G-rey, with all your might." 

The doctors came, and looked and wondered. 
And shook their heads, and paused and pondered. 
Till one proposed he should be bled, 
"No — leeched, you mean," the other said — • 
"■ Clap on a blister," roared another, 
" No — cup him " — " No — trepan him, brother ! " 



162 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

A sixth would recommend a purge, 
The next would an emetic urge, 
The eighth, just come from a dissection, 
His verdict gave for an injection; 
The last produced a box of pills, 
A certain cure for earthly ills ; 
''I had a patient yesternight," 
Quoth he, " and wretched was her plight. 
And as the only means to save her. 
Three dozen patent pills I gave her. 
And by to-morrow, I suppose 
That—" 

"Here she goes — and there she goes! " 

"You all are fools," the lady said, 
" The way is, just to shave his head, 

Eun, bid the barber come anon — " 
" Thanks, mother," thought her clever son, 
" You help the knaves that would have bit me, 

But all creation sha' n't outwit me! " 

Thus to himself, while to and fro 

His finger perseveres to go. 

And from his lips no accent flows 

But '' Here she goes — and there she goes! " 

The barber came — " Lord help him ! what 

A queer customer I 've got; 

But we must do our best to save him — 

So hold him, gemmen, while I shave him! " 

But here the doctors interpose — 
" A woman never — " 

" There she goes ! " 

" A woman is no judge of physic, 

JSTot even when her baby is sick. 

He must be bled" — "JSTo — no — a blister" — 
" A purge you mean " — " I say a clyster " — 
'' No— cup him "— " leech him "— " pills ! pills ! pills 

And all the house the uproar fills. 



SEE DIED IN BE A UTT. 163 

What means that smile ? What means that shiver ? 
The landlord's hmbs with rapture quiver, 
And triumph brightens up his face — 
His finger yet shall v^in the race I 
The clock is on the stroke of nine — 
And up he starts — " 'T is mine ! 't is mine ! " 
" What do you mean ? " 

"I mean the fifty! 
I never spent an hour so thrifty ; 
But you, who tried to make me lose, 
Go, burst with envy, if you choose ! 
But how is this ! Where are they ? " 

"Who?" 
" The gentlemen — I mean the two 

Came yesterday — are they below ? " 
" They galloped off an hour ago." 
" Oh, purge me ! blister ! shave and bleed ! 
For, hang the knaves, I 'm mad indeed ! " 

Ja.mes Nack. 

She died in beauty, — like a rose 

Blown from its parent stem ; 
She died in beauty, — like a pearl 

Dropped from some diadem. 

She died in beauty, — like a lay 

Along a moonlit lake ; 
She died in beauty, — like the song 

Of birds amid the brake. 

She died in beauty, — ^like the snow 

On flowers dissolved away ; 
She died in beauty, — like a star 

Lost on the brow of day. 



1 6 4 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

She lives in glory, — like night's gems 

Set round the silver moon ; 
She lives in glory, — like the sun 

Amid the blue of June. 

Charles Doyne Sillery. 

Ci^e Neb Cale of a Exit. 

The Orient day was fresh and and fair, 
A breeze sang soft in the ambient air, 
Men almost wondered to find it there. 

Blowing so near Bengal, 
Where waters bubble as boiled in a pot. 
And the gold of the sun spreads melting hot, 
And there 's hardly a breath of wind to be got 

At any price at all. 
Unless, indeed, when the great Simoom 
Gets up from its bed with the voice of doom. 

And deserts no rains e'er drench 
Eise up and roar with a dreadful gust. 
Pillars of sand and clouds of dust 
Eushing on drifted, and rapid to burst. 
And filling all India's throat with thirst 

That its Ganges couldn't quench. 

JSTo great Simoom rose up to-day. 

But only a gentle breeze. 
And that of such silent and voiceless play 
That a lady's bustle 
Had made more rustle 

Than it did among the trees. 
'T was not like the breath of a British vale, 
Where each Green acre is blessed with a Gale 

Whenever the natives please ; 
But it was of that soft inviting sort 
That it tempted to revel in picnic sport 

A couple of Bengalese. 



THE NEW TALE OF A TUB. 165 

Two Bengalese 
Eesolved to seize 
The balmy chance of that cool-winged weather, 
To revel in Bengal ease together. 

One w^as tall, the other was stout. 
They were natives both of the glorious East, 
And both so fond of a rural feast 
That off they roamed to a country plain, 

Where the breeze roved free about. 
That during its visits brief, at least, 
If it never were able to blow again. 

It might blow upon their blow-out. 

The country plain gave a view as small 

As ever man clapped his eyes on. 
Where the sense of sight did easily pall, 
For it kept on seeing nothing at aU, 

As far as the far horizon. 
Nothing at all! — Oh! what do I say ? — 
Sometliing certainly stood in the way 
(Though it had neither cloth nor tray. 

With its " tiffin " I Avould n't quarrel)— 
It was a sort of hermaphrodite thing, 
(It might have been filled with sugar or ling 
But is very unfit for a muse to sing), 

Betwixt a tub and a barrel. 

It stood in the midst of that Indian plam, 

Burning with sunshine, pining for rain, 

A parenthesis balanced 'twixt pleasure and pain, 

And as stiff as if it were starching, — 
When up to it, over the brown and green 
Of that Indian soil, were suddenly seen 

Two gentlemen anxiously marching. 
Those two gentlemen were, if you please. 
The aforesaid couple of Bengalese ; 

And the tub or barrel that stood beyond — 

14* 



1 G 6 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS 

For short we will call it Tub — 
Contained with pride, 
In its jolly inside, 
The prize of which they were dotingly fond, 
The aforesaid gentlemen's grub. 

"Leave us alone — come man or come beast," 
Said the eldest, " We '11 soon have a shy at the feast." 

They are now at their picnic with might and with uiain. 
But what do we see in the front of the plain ? 
A jungle, a thicket of bush, w^eed, and grass, 
And in it reposing — eh ? — no, not an ass — 
l^ot an ass, not an ass, — that could not come to pass ; 
No donkey, no donkey, no donkey at all, 
But, superb in his slumber, a Eoyal Bengal. 
Though Royal, he was n't a king — 
ISTo such thing ! 
He did n't rule lands from the Thames to the Niger, 
But he did hold a reign 
O'er that jungle and plain. 
And besides was a very magnificent Tiger. 

There he lay, in his skin so gay^ 
His passions at rest, and his appetites curbed ; 
A Minister Prime, 
In his proudest time, 
Asleep, was never more undisturbed ; 

For who would come to shake him ? 
0, it 's certain sure, in his dream demure, 

That none would dare to wake him. 
Only the Royal snore may creep 
Over the dreams of a Tiger's sleep. 

The Bengalese, in cool apparel. 

Meanwhile have reached their picnic barrel ; 

In other words, they have tossed the grub 



THE NEW TALE OF A TUB. 167 

Out of their great provision Tub, 
And, standing it up for shelter, 
Sit guzzhng underneath its shade, 
With a glorious dinner ready-made, 

Which they're eating helter-skelter. 
Ham and chicken, and bread and cheese, 

They make a pass to spread on the grass. 
They sit at ease, with their plates on their knees, 
And now their hungry jaws they appease, 
And now they turn to the glass ; 
For Hodgson's ale 
Is genuine pale, 
And the bright champagne 
Flows not in vain. 
The most convivial souls to please 
Of these very thirsty Bengalese. 

Ha ! one of the two has relinquished his fork. 
And wakes up the Tiger by drawing a cork. 

Blurting and spurting ! 

List! list! 

Perhaps the Tiger thinks he is hissed. 
Effervescing and whizzed and phizzed ! 
Perhaps his Majesty thinks he is quizzed. 

Or haply deems. 

As he 's roused from his dreams. 
That his visions have come to a thirsty stop. 
And resolves to moisten his throat with a drop. 

At all events, with body and soul, 

He gives in his jungle a stretch and a roll, 

Then regaUy rises to go for a stroll. 

With a temperate mind, 

For a beast of his kind. 

And a tail unco;Timonly long behind. 



168 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. 

He knows of no water, 

By field or by flood ; • 
He does not seek slaughter, 
He does not scent blood. 
JSTo ! the utmost scope 
Of his limited hope 
Is, that these 
Bengalese, 
When they find he arrives, 

May not rise from their picnic and run for their hves, 
But simply bow on that beautiful plain. 
And offer Sir Tiger a glass of champagne. 
" Prom my jungle it true is 
They woke me, I think. 
So the least they can do is 
To give me some drink." 

Gently Tiger crouches along, 
Humming a kind of animal song, 

A sweet subdued familiar lay 

As ever was warbled by beast of prey ; 
And all so softly, tunefully done, 

That it made no more sound 

Than his shade on the ground ; 
So the Bengalese heard it, never a one ! 

G-ently Tiger steals along, 
" Mild as a moonbeam," meek as a lamb, — 
What so suddenly changes his song 
From a tune to a growl ? 
"Och! by my sowl, 
Nothing on earth but the smell of the ham ! " 
He quickens his pace. 

The illigant baste, 
And he 's running a race 
With himself for a taste. 
And he 's taken to roaring, and given u]d humming. 
Just to let the two Bengalese know he is comino-. 



TEE NEW TALE OF A TUB. 169 

"What terrors sieze 
The Bengalese 
As the roar of the Tiger reaches the ear, 
Their hair is standing on end with fear. 

Short-and-stout, with his hair all gray, 

Has a rattling note in his jolly old throat; 

If choking his laugh with a truss of hay, 

He could n't more surely have stifled the gay. 
While Tall-and-thin with his hair aU carroty, 

Looks thrice as red with fright as his head, 

And his face bounds plump, at a single jump, 
Into horror, and out of hilarity. 

All they can hear, in their terrible fear, 

Behind and before, is the Tiger's roar ; 

Again and again, o'er the plain. 

Clearer and clearer, nearer and nearer, 
Into the Tub now its way it has found. 
Where its echoes keep rolling round and round, 
Till out of the bung-hole they bursting come. 
Like a regiment of thunders escaped from a drum. 

If an earthquake had shattered a thousand kegs, 
The terrified Bengalese could n't, i' fegs, 
Have leapt more rapidly on to their legs. 

He 's at 'em, he 's on 'em, the jungle guest ! 

When a man's life by peril is prest, 

His wits will sometimes be at their best. 
So the presence of Tiger, I find. 
Inspires our heroes with presence of mind. 

There 's no time to be lost — 

Down the glasses are tossed; 
The Bengalese have abandoned their grub, 
And they 're dodging their gentleman round the Tub. 
Active and earnest they nowhere lodge. 
And he can't get at them, because of their dodge. 
Short-and-stout and Tall-and-thin 
Never before such a scrape were in, 
15 



1 r SIXGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

Nor ever yet used — can you ^vell have a doubt of it ?- 
So uncommonly artful a dodge to get out of it 
Tiger keeps prowling, 
Howling, and growling; 
He feels himself that their dodge is clever ; 
But the quick fresh blood of the Bengalese 
Xicer and nicer he snuffs on the breeze. 
The more they practice their dodge recitals, 
The more he longs to dine on their vitals. 
His passion is up, his hunger is keen, 
His jaws are ready, his teeth are clean. 
And sharpened their limbs to sever. 
The fire is flashing in Hght from his eyes ; 
In his own pecuhar manner he cries, 
The while they shine, 
" If I mean to dine, 
I had better begin," 
And then, with a grin, 
And a voice the loudest that ever was heard, 
He roars, " Xever trust to a tiger's word, 
If this dodge shall last much longer ! 
No, no, no, no, — it shall be no go ! 
There 's a way of disturbing this Tub's repose ; 
So down on your knees, 
You Bengalese, 

And prepare to be eaten up, if you please. 
Here goes ! 
Here goes I here goes ! " and he gave a spring. 
The gentlemen, looking for no such thing, 
Might have fallen a prey to the Tiger's fling ; 

But a certain interference. 
Which bursts from their most inteUigent Tub, 
May enable them to return to their grub. 
On the selfsame plain a year hence. 
The Tub, though empty of roll and ration. 
Is full of a certain preservation, 

Of which — though it does not follow 



THE NEW TALE OF A TUB. 171 

In every case of argumentation- 
It is full because it is hollow. 
For, not having a top, and no inside things, 
It turns top-heavy when Tiger springs, 
And, making a kind of balancing pause, 
Keeps holding the animal up by his claws. 

In a manner that seems to fret it ; 
While Short-and-stout, in a state of doubt. 
Keeps on his belly a sharp lookout ; 
And Tall-and-thin, with an impudent grin. 

Exults in his way, 

As much as to say, 
" I only wish you may get it ! 
But much as I may respect your ability, 
1 don't see at present the great probability." 

The Tiger has leapt up, heart and soul. 
It 's clear he meant to go the whole 
Hog, in his hungry efforts to seize 
The two defianceful Bengalese. 

But the Tub ! the Tub ! 

Ay, there 's the rub ! 

At present he 's balanced atop of the Tub, 

His fore legs inside, 

And the rest of his hide, 
Not weighing so much as his head and his legs, 

And having no hand in 

A pure understandin' 
Of the just equihbrium of casks and of kegs, 

Not bred up in attics, 

Nor taught mathematics. 
To work out the problems of Euclid with pegs, — 
He has plunged with the impetus Avild of a lover. 
And the Tub has loomed large, balanced, paused, and 
turned over. 

The Tiger at first had a hobby-horse ride, 
But now he is decently quartered inside; 



172 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS 

And the question is next, long as fortune may frown on 

him, 
How the two Bengalese are to keep the Tub down on 
him. 

'Bout this there 's no blunder, 
The Tiger is under 

The Tub I 
My verse need not run 

To the length of a sonnet, 
To tell how the Bengalese 

Both jumped upon it, 
"While the beautiful barrel - 

Keeps acting as bonnet 
To the Tiger inside. 
Who no more in his pride 
Can roam over jungle and plain, 
But sheltered alike from the sun and the rain, 
Around its interior his sides deigns to rub 
With a fearful hub-bub. 
And longs for his freedom again. 

The two Bengalese, 

Not at all at their ease. 

Hear him roar, 

And deplore 

Their prospects as sore, 
Forgetting both picnic and flask ; 

Each, wondering, dumb, 

What of both will become. 
Helps the other to press on the cask ; 

Eesigned to their fate, 

But increasing their weight 
By action of muscle and sinew, 

In order that forcibly you, Mr. Tub, 
Whom their niggers this morning 
Rolled here with their grub. 
May still keep the Tiger within you. 



THE NEW TALE OF A TUB. 173 

On the top of the Tub, 
In the warmest of shirts, 

The thin man stands, 
While the fat by his skirts 
Holds, anxiously puffing and blowing ; 

And the thin peers over the top of the cask, 
" Is there any hope for us ? " 

As much as to ask, 
With a countenance cunning and knowing ; 
And just as he mournfully 'gins to bewail. 

In a grief-song that ought to be sung whole. 
He twigs the long end of the old Tiger's tail 
As it twists itself out of the bung-hole. 
Then, sharp on the watch, 
He gives it a catch. 
And shouts to the Tiger, 
" You 've now got your match ; 
You may rush and may riot, may wriggle and roar, 
But I 'm blest if I '11 let your tail go any more ! " 
It 's as safe as a young roasted pig in a larder, 
And no two Bengalese could hold on by it harder. 
With the Tiger's tail clenched fast in his fist. 
And his own coat-tail grasped fast to assist, 
Stands Tall-and-thin with Short-and-stout, 
Both on the top of the Tub to scout, 
Tiger within and they without. 

And both in a pretty pickle. 
The Tiger begins by giving a bound ; 
The Tub 's half turned, but the men are found 
To have very carefuUy jumped to the ground — 

At trifles they must not stickle. 
It 's no use quaking and turning pale. 
Pluck and patience must now prevail. 
They must keep a hold on the Tiger's tail, 

And neither one be fickle. 
There they must pull, if they pull for weeks. 
Straining their stomachs and bursting their cheeks. 



174 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

While Tiger alternately roars and squeaks, 

Trying to break away from 'em; 
They must keep the Tub turned over his back, 
And never let his long tail get slack, 

For fear he should win the day from 'em. 
Yes, yes, they must hold him tight. 
From night till morning, from morn till night, — • 
Must n't stop to eat, must n't stop to weep, 
Must n't stop to drink, must n't stop to sleep, — 
ISTo cry, no laugh, no rest, no grub, 
TiU they starve the Tiger under the Tub, 
Till the animal dies. 
To his own surprise. 
With two Bengalese in a deadly quarrel. 
And Ills tail thrust through the hole of a barrel. 

Oh dear ! oh dear ! it 's very clear 

They can't live so ; but they dare n't let go — 

Fate for a pitying world to wail. 

Starving behind a Tiger's tail. 

If Invention be Necessity's son, 

l^ow let him tell them what 's to be done. 

What 's to be done ! ha ! I see a grin 

Of joy on the face of Tall-and-thin, 

Some new device he has hit in a trice. 

The which he is telling all about 

To the gratified gentleman, Short-and-stout. 

A¥hat 's to be done ! what precious fun ! 

Save n't they found out what 's to be done ! 

See! see! what glorious glee! 

Note ! mark ! what a capital lark ! 

Tiger and Tub, and bung-hole and aU, 

Baffled by what is about to befall. 

Excellent ! marvelous ! beautiful ! ! 

is nH it now an original go ! 

What, stop ! I 'm ready to drop. 

Hold ! stay ! I 'm fainting away. 



THE OLD SEXTON. 175 

Laughter I 'm certain will kill me to-day; 
And Short- and-stout is bursting his skin, 
And almost in fits is Tall-and-thin, 
And Tiger is free, yet they do not quail, 

Though temper has all gone wrong with him. 
No ! they Ve tied a knot in the Tiger's tail, 

And he carried the Tub along with him ; 
He 's a freehold for life, with a tail out of joint, 
And has made his last climax a true knotty point. 

Frederick W. N. Bay ley. 



Nigh to a grave that was newly made, 
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade ; 
His work was done, and he paused to wait 
The funeral-train at the open gate. 
A relic of by- gone days was he. 
And his locks were gray as the foamy sea ; 
And these words came from his lips so thin : 
" I gather them in — I gather them in — 
G-ather — gather — I gather them in. 

'■'■ I gather them in ; for man and boy, 
Year after year of grief and joy, 
I 've builded the houses that lie around 
In every nook of this burial ground. 
Mother and daughter, father and son, 
Come to my solitude one by one; 
But come they stranger, or come they kin, 
I gather them in — I gather them in. 

" Many are with me, yet I 'm alone ; 
I 'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne 
On a monument slab of marble cold — 
My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold. 



176 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

Come they from cottage, or come they from haU, 
Mankind are my subjects, all, all, aU ! 
May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin, 
I 2:ather them in — I 2-ather them in. 



*' I gather them in, and their final rest 
Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast ! " 
And the sexton ceased as the funeral-train 
"Wound mutely over that solemn plain ; 
And I said to myself : When time is told. 
A mightier voice than that sexton's old. 
Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din ; 

" I gather them in — I gather them in— 
Gather — gather — gather them in." 

Park Benjajniin. 

CJe Icibate of tf)t ISnm. 

Last night among his fellow-roughs, 

He jested, quaffed, and swore; 
A drunken private of the Buffs, 

Who never looked before. 
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown. 

He stands in Elgin's place. 
Ambassador from Britain's crown, 

And type of all her race. 

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, 

Bewildered, and alone, 
A heart with English instinct fraught 

He yet can call his own. 
Ay, tear his body hmb from limb. 

Bring cord or axe or flame. 
He only knows that not through him 
• Shall England come to shame. 

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed. 
Like dreams, to come and go ; 



LIGHT. 177 

Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed, 

One sheet of living snow ; 
The smoke above his father's door 

In gray soft eddyings hung ; 
Must he then watch it rise no more, 

Doomed by himself so young ? 

Yes, honor calls! — with strength like steel 

He put the vision by ; 
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel. 

An English lad must die. 
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, 

With knee to man unbent. 
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, 

To his red grave he went. 

Yain mightiest fleets of iron framed. 

Vain those all-shattering guns, 
Unless proud England keep untamed 

The strong heart of her sons ; 
So let his name through Europe ring,^ 

A man of mean estate. 
Who died, as firm as Sparta's king. 

Because his soul was great. 

Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 



From the quickened womb of the primal gloom 

The sun rolled black and bare. 
Till I wove him a vest for his Ethiop breast 

Of the threads of my golden hair ; 
And when the broad tent of the firmament 

Arose on its airy spars, 
I penciled the hue of its matchless blue. 

And spangled it round with stars. 
15* 



1 r 8 SISGLE FA:SI0 US P OEMS. 

I painted the flowers of the Eden bowers. 

And their leaves of hving green, 
And mine were the dyes in the sinless eyes 

Of Eden's virgin queen ; 
And when the fiend's art on the trustful heart 

Had fastened its mortal speU, 
In the silvery sphere of the first-born tear 

To the trembhng earth I felL 

"When the waves that burst o'er the world accurs'd 

Their work of wrath had sped, 
And the Ark's lone few, the tried and true, 

Came forth among the dead ; 
"With the wond'rous gleams of my bridal beams, 

I bade their terrors cease, 
As I wrote, on the roll of the storm's dark scroll, 

God's covenant of peace ! 

Like a paU at rest on a senseless breast, 

]S'ight's funeral shadow slept; — 
"Where shepherd swains on the Bethlehem plains 

Their lonely vigils kept — 
"When I flashed on their sight the heralds bright 

Of Heaven's redeeming plan, 
As they chanted the morn of a Saviour born — 

Joy, joy to the outcast man ! 

Equal favor I show to the lofty and low, 

On the just and unjust I descend ; 
E'en the blind, whose vain spheres roU in darkness and tears, 

Feel my smile, the blest smile of a friend. 
Nay, the flower of the waste by my love is embraced, 

As the rose in the garden of Eangs ; 
At the chrysahs bier of the worm I appear. 

And lo ! the gay butterfly wings. 

The desolate !Mom, hke a mourner forlorn. 
Conceals aU the pride of her charms. 



A DEATHBED. 1V9 

Till I bid the bright hours chase night from her bowers, 

And lead the young day to her arms ; 
And when the gay Rover seeks Eve for his lover, 

And sinks to her balmy repose, 
I wrap their soft rest by the zephyr-fanned west, 

In curtains of amber and rose. 

From my sentinel steep, by the night-brooded deep, 

I gaze with unslumbering eye, 
When the cynosure star of the mariner 

Is blotted from out of the sky ; 
And guided by me through the merciless sea, 

Though sped by the hurricane's wings. 
His compassless bark, lone, weltering dark, 

To the haven-home safely he brings. 

I waken the flowers in their dew-spangled bowers, 

The birds in their chambers of green. 
And mountain and plain glow with beauty again, 

As they bask in my matinal sheen. 
Oh, if such the glad worth of my presence to earth, 

Though fitful and fleeting the while, 
What glories must rest on the home of the blest. 

Ever bright with the Deity's smile ! 

William Pitt Palmer, 

Her suffering ended with the day ; 

Yet lived she at its close, 
And breathed the long, long night away 

In statue-like repose. 

But when the sun, in all his state. 

Illumed the eastern sides, 
She passed through glory's morning-gate. 

And walked in Paradise. 

James Aldrich. 



ISO SIXGLE FJJIO US P OEMS. 

It ^vas "Llie calm and sOent night ! 

Seven hundred veai-s and fifty- three 
Had Eome been growing up to might, 

And now was queen of land and sea^ 
No sound was heard of clashing wars, — 

Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain : 
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars 

Held undisturbed their ancient reign. 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 

'T was in the cahn and sUent night ! 

The senator of haughty Eome, 
Impatient, urged his chariot's flight, 

From lordly revel rolling home ; 
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway ; 
What recked the Eomau what befell 

A paltry province far away, 
In the solemn midnight. 
Centuries ago ? 

"Within that province far away 

Went plodding home a weary boor ; 
A streak of light before him lay. 

Fallen through a half -shut stable-door, 
Across his path. He passed, for naught 

Told what was going on within ; 
How keen the stars, his only thought — 

The air, how calm, and cold, and thin, 
In the solenm midnight, 
Centuries ago I 

Oh, strange indifference ! low and high 
Drowsed over common joys and cares; 



TEE IVY GREEN. \ 8 1 

The earth was still, but knew not why ; 

The world was listening, unawares. 
How calm a moment may precede 

One that shall thrill the world forever ! 
To that still moment, none would heed, 
Man's doom was linked no more to sever, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ! 

It is the calm and solemn night ! 

A thousand bells ring out, and throw 
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 

The darkness, charmed and holy now ! 
The night that erst no name had worn, 

To it a happy name is given ; 
For in that stable lay, new-born. 

The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ! 

Alfred Dom^et. 

0, A DAINTY plant is the ivy green, 

That creepeth o'er ruins old! 
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, 

In his cell so lone and cold. 
The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, 

To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
And the mouldering dust that years have made 

Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the ivy green. 

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, 

And a stanch old heart has he ! 
16 



1 82 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. 

Ho-^ closely he twineth, hovr tight he clings 

To his friend, the huge oak-tree ! 
And slyly he traileth along the ground, 

And his leaves he gently waves, 
And he joyously twines and hugs around 
The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
Creeping where no hfe is seen, 
A rare old plant is the ivy green. 

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, 

And nations have scattered been ; 
But the stout old ivy shaU never fade 

From its hale and hearty green. 
The brave old plant in its lonely days 

Shall fatten upon the past ; 
For the statehest building man can raise 
Is the ivy's food at last 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the ivy green. 

Charles Dickexs. 



Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill. 
That cut, hke blades of steel, the air. 

Causing the creeping blood to chill 
With the sharp cadence of despair ? 

Again they come, as if a heart 

Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, 

And every string had voice apart 
To utter its pecuKar woe. 

Whence come they ? From yon temple, where 
An altar, raised for private prayer, 
E'ow forms the warrior's marble bed 
Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. 



THE POLISH BOY. 183 

The dim fui^ereal tapers throw 
A holy lustre o'er his brow, 
And burnish with their rays of hght 
The mass of curls that gather bright 
Above the haughty brow and eye 
Of a young boy that 's kneeling by. 

What hand is that, whose icy press 

Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, 
But meets no answering caress ? 

No thrilling fingers seek its clasp. 
It is the hand o£ her whose cry 

Rang wildly, late, upon the air. 
When the dead warrior met her eye 

Outstretched upon the altar there. 

With pallid Up and stony brow 
She murmurs forth her anguish now. 
But hark I the tramp of heavy feet 
Is heard along the bloody street ; 
Nearer and nearer yet they come. 
With clanking arms and noiseless drum. 
Now whispered curses, low and deep, 
Around the holy temple creep ; 
The gate is burst ; a ruf&an band 
Rush in, and savagely demand. 
With brutal voice and oath profane, 
The startled boy for exile's chain. 

The mother sprang with gesture wild, 
And to her bosom clasped her child ; 
Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye, 
Shouted with fearful energy, 
" Back, ruffians, back ! nor dare to tread 
Too near the body of my dead ; 
Nor touch the living boy ; I stand 
Between him and your lawless band. 



184 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, 

With Eussia's heaviest iron bands, 

And drag me to Siberia's wild 

To perish, if 't will save my child ! " 

" Peace, woman, peace ! " the leader cried, 
Tearing the pale boy from her side. 
And in his ruffian grasp he bore 
His victim to the temple door. 

" One moment ! " shrieked the mother; " one ! 
Will land or gold redeem my son ? 
Take heritage, take name, take all. 
But leave him free from Russia's thrall ! 
Take these ! " and her white arms and hands 
She stripped of rings and diamond bands, 
And tore from braids of long black hair 
The gems that gleamed like starlight there ; 
Her cross of blazing rubies, last, 
Down at the Russian's feet she cast. 
He stooped to seize the glittering store ; — 
Up springing from the marble floor. 
The mother, with a cry of joy. 
Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. 
But no ! The Russian's iron grasp 
Again undid the mother's clasp. 
Forward she fell, with one long cry 
Of more than mortal agony. 

But the brave child is roused at length. 

And, breaking from the Russian's hold, 
He stands," a giant in the strength 

Of his young spirit, fierce and bold. 
Proudly he towers ; his flashing eye, 

So blue, and yet so bright. 
Seems kindled from the eternal sky, 

So brilliant is its light. 
His curling hps and crimson cheeks 
Foretell the thought before he speaks ; 



THE POLISH BOY. 185 

With a full voice of proud command 

He turned upon the wondering band : 
*• Ye hold me not ! no ! no, nor can ; 

This hour has made the boy a man. 

I knelt before my slaughtered sire, 

Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. 

I wept upon his marble brow, 

Yes, wept ! I was a child ; but now 

My noble mother, on her knee. 

Hath done the work of years for me ! " 

He drew aside his broidered vest. 

And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, 

The jeweled haft of poniard bright 

Glittered a moment on the sight. 
"Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave! 

Think ye my noble father's glaive 

Would drink the life-blood of a slave ? 

The pearls that on the handle flame. 

Would blush to rubies in their shame ; 

The blade would quiver in thy breast 

Ashamed of such ignoble rest. 

No ! thus I rend the tyrant's chain, 

And fling him back a boy's disdain ! " 

A moment, and the funeral light 
Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright; 
Another, and his young heart's blood 
Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. 
Quick to his mother's side he sprang. 
And on the air his clear voice rang : 
" Up, mother, up 1 I 'm free ! I 'm free ! 
The choice was death or slavery. 
Up, mother, up ! Look on thy son ! 
His freedom is forever won ; 
And now he waits one holy kiss 
To bear his father home in bliss, 
One last embrace, one blessing, — one I 
To prove thou know'st, approv'st thy son. 



186 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

What ! silent yet ? Canst thou not feel 
My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal? 
Speak, mother, speak ! lift up thy head ! 
What ! silent still ? Then art thou dead ! 

G-reat Grod, I thank thee ! Mother, I 

Rejoice with thee, — and thus — to die." 
One long, deep breath, and his pale head 
Lay on his mother's bosom, — dead. 

AxN S. Stephens. 

THE charge at Balaklava ! 

that rash and fatal charge ! 
Never was a fiercer, braver, 
Than that charge at Balaklava, 

On the battle's bloody marge ! 
All the day the Russian columns, 

Fortress huge, and blazing banks. 
Poured their dread destructive volumes 

On the French and English ranks, — 

On the gallant alhed ranks ! 
Earth and sky seemed rent asunder 
By the loud incessant thunder ! 
When a strange but stern command — 
iSTeedless, heedless, rash command — 
Came to Lucan's Httle band, — 
Scarce six hundred men and horses 
Of those vast contending forces : — 
" England 's lost unless you save her ! 
Charge the pass at Balaklava! " 

that rash and fatal charge, 
On the battle's bloody marge ! 

Far away the Russian EaR'les 

Soar o'er smoking hill and dell. 

And their hordes, hke howhng beagles. 

Dense and countless, round them yell ! 



BALAKLAVA. 187 

Thundering cannon, deadly mortar, 
Sweep the field in every quarter ! 
Never, since the days of Jesus, 
Trembled so the Chersonesus ! 

Here behold the G-allic Lilies — 

Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies — 

Float as erst at old Ramillies ! 

And beside them, lo ! the Lion ! 

With her trophied Cross, is flying ! 
Glorious standards ! — shall they waver 
On the field of Balaklava ? 
No, by Heavens ! at that command — 
Sudden, rash, but stern command — 
Charges Lucan's little band ! 

Brave Six Hundred ! lo ! they charge, 
On the battle's bloody marge ! 

Down yon deep and skirted valley. 

Where the crowded cannon play, — 
AVhere the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, 
Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli, — 

Down that gorge they swept away ! 
Down the new Thermopylae, 
Flashing swords and helmets see ! 
Underneath the iron shower. 

To the brazen cannon's jaws, 
Heedless of their deadly power. 

Press they without fear or pause, — 

To the very cannon's jaws ! 
G-allant Nolan, brave as Roland 

At the field of Roncesvalles, 

Dashes down the fatal valley, 
Dashes on the bolt of death. 
Shouting with his latest breath, 
" Charge, then, gallants ! do not waver, 
Charge the pass at Balaklava! " 

that rash and fatal charge, 
On the battle's bloody marge ! 



188 SiXGLE FA3I0 US F OEMS. 

Xow the bolts of volleTed thunder 
Rend the httle band asunder, 
Steed and rider wildly screaming, 
Screaming wildly, sink away ; 
Late so proudly, proudly gleaming, 
Now but hfeless clods of clay, — 
Kow but bleeding clods of clay! 
Never since the days of Jesus, 
Saw such sight the Chersonesus ! 
Yet your remnant, brave Sis Hundred, 
Presses onward, onward, onward, 

Till they storm the bloody pass, — 
Till, hke brave Leonidas, 
They storm the deadly pass ! 
Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, KalH, 
In that wild shot-rended valley, — 
Drenched with fire and blood, hke lava. 
Awful pass at Balaklava! 

that rash and fatal charge. 
On that battle's bloody marge ! 

For now Russia's rallied forces, 
Swarming hordes of Cossack horses, 
Tramphng o'er the reeking corses, 

Drive the thinned assailants back, 
Drive the feeble remnant back. 
O'er their late heroic track ! 
Vain, alas ! now rent and sundered, 
Yain your struggles, brave Two Hundred ! 
Thrice your number lie asleep. 
In that valley dark and deep. 
Weak and wounded you retire 
From that hurricane of fire, — 
That tempestuous storm of fire, — 
But no soldiers firmer, braver. 

Ever trod the field of fame. 
Then the Knights of Balaklava, — 
Honor to each hero's name ! 



THE PA UPERS DRIVE. 189 

Yet their country long shall mourn 

For her ranks so rashly shorn, — 

So gallantly, but madly shorn 

In that fierce and fatal charge. 
On the battle's bloody marge. 

Alexander B. Meek. 

Cf)e pauper's Bribe* 

There 's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot — 
To the church-yard a pauper is going, I wot; 
The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs ; 
And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings : 

Battle Ms hones over the stones ! 

He 's only a pauper^ whom, nohody owns ! 

Oh, where are the mourners ? Alas ! there are none — 
He has left not a gap in the world, now he 's gone — 
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; 
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can : 

Rattle his hones over the stones ! 

He 's only a pauper, whonfi nohody owns ! 

What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din ! 
The whip, how it cracks ! and the wheels, how they spin f 
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled ! 
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world ! 

Rattle his hones over the stones ! 

He 's only a pauper, whom nohody owns! 

Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some approach 
To gentihty, now that he 's stretched in a coach ! 
He 's taking a drive in his carriage at last ; 
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast. 

Rattle his hones over the stones ! 

He 's only a pauper, whom nohody owns ! 

You bumpkins, who stare at your brother conveyed, 
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid ! 
16* 



190 SIXGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

And be joyful to think, when by death you 're laid low, 
You 've a chance to the grave hke a gemman to go ! 

Rattle his bones over the stones ! 

He 's only a pauper^ whom nobody owns I 

But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it is sad, 
To think that a heart ni humanity clad 
Should make, hke the brutes, such a desolate end, 
And depart from the light Avithout leaving a friend. 

Bear soft his hones over the stones I 

Though a pauper, he 's one whom his MaJ^er yet oivns ! 

Thomas Xoel. 

^Florence Fane. 

I loved thee long and dearly, 

Florence Yane ; 
My life's bright dream and early 

Hath come again ; 
I renew in my fond vision 

My heart's dear pain, 
My hopes and thy derision, 

Florence Vane ! 

The ruin, lone and hoary. 

The ruin old, 
Where thou didst hark my story, 

At even told, 
That spot, the hues elysian 

Of sky and plain 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Yane ! 

Thou wast loveher than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme ; 



TEE BULE '8 F THIS BONNET 0' MINE. 191 

Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main, 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Yane. 

But fairest, coldest wonder ! 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod under ; 

Alas the day ! 
And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain, 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Yane ! 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep. 
The daisies love to dally 

AYhere maidens sleep, 
May their bloom, in beauty vying. 

Never wane 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Yane. 

Philip Pendleton Cooke, 



CJe Bule ^js i' tf)is ^mntt o' Mint. 

The dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine : 

My ribbins '11 never be reet ; 
Here, Mally, aw 'm like to be fine, 

For Jamie '11 be comin' to-neet ; 
He met me i' th' lone t' other day 

(Aw wur gooin' for wayter to th' well). 
An' he begged that aw 'd wed him i' May, 

Bi th' mass, if he'll let me, aw will! 

When he took my two bonds into his, 
Good Lord, heaw they trembled between ! 



192 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

An' aw durst n't look up in his face, 

Becose on him seein' mj e'en. 
Mt cheek went as red as a rose ; 

There 's never a mortal con teU 
Heaw happy aw felt, — for, thae knows, 

One could n't ha' axed him thehsel'. 

But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung : 

To let it eawt would n't be reet, 
For aw thought to seem f orrud wur wrong ; 

So aw towd him aw 'd tell him to-neet. 
But, MaUy, thae knows very weel. 

Though it is n't a thing one should own, 
Iv aw 'd th' pikein' o' th' world to mysel'. 

Aw 'd oather ha' Jamie or noan. 

iSTeaw, MaUy, aw 're towd thae my mind ; 

What would to do iv ' t wur thee ? 
" Aw 'd tak him just while he 's inclined, 

An' a f arrantly bargain he 'U be ; 
For Jamie 's as greadly a lad 

As ever stept eawt into th' sun. 
G-o, jump at thy chance, an' get wed ; 

An' mak th' best.o' th' job when it 's done ! " 

Eh, dear ! but it 's time to be gwon : 
Aw should n't hke Jamie to wait ; 
Aw connut for shame be too soon. 

An' aw would n't for th' wuld be too late. 
Aw 'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel : 
Dost think 'at my bonnet '11 do ? 
" Be off, lass, — thae looks very weel ; 

He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo ! " 

Edwix Waugh. 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 193 

Etraijain Emcoln. 

FIRST PUBLISHED IN PUNCH. 

You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, 
You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, 

Broad for the self-complacent British sneer, 

His length of shambhng limb, his furrowed face, 

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling haii", 

His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease. 
His lack of all we prize as debonair. 

Of power or will to shine, of art to please ; 

JoM, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, 
Judging each step as though the way were plain; 

Eeckless, so it could point its paragraph. 
Of chief's perplexity or people's pain, — 

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet 
The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, 

Between the mourners at his head and feet, 
Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you? 

Yes : he had lived to shame me from my sneer. 

To lame my pencil and confute my pen ; 
To make me own this hind of princes peer, 

This rail- splitter, a true-born king of men. 

My shallow judgment I had learned to rue. 

Noting how to occasion's height he rose ; 
How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true ; 

How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows ; 

How humble, yet how hopeful he could be ; 

How in good fortune and in ill the same ; 
Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, 

Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. 
17 



194 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

He went about his work, such work as few 
Ever had laid on head and heart and hand, 

As one who knows, where there 's a task to do, 

Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command 

Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, 
That God makes instruments to work his will, 

If but that will we can arrive to know, 

ISTor tamper with the weights of good and ill. 

So he went forth to battle, on the side 

That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, 

As in his peasant boyhood he had plied 

His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting misiits — 



The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil. 

The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe. 

The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's toil. 

The prairie hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, 

The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear, — 
Such were the deeds that helped his youth to train : 

Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may bear, 
If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. 

So he grew up, a destined work to do. 

And hved to do it; four long-suifering years' 

111 fate, ill feeling, ill report lived through. 

And then he heard the hisses change to cheers, 

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise. 

And took both with the same unwavering mood, — 

Till, as he came on light, from darkling days, 

And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood, 

A felon hand, between the goal and him, 

Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest. 

And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim. 
Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest. 



THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. ] 95 

The words of mercy were upon liis lips, 

Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, 
When tliis vile murderer brought swift eclipse 

To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men. 

The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, 

Utter one voice of sympathy and shame. 
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high I 

Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came ! 

A deed accursed! Strokes have been struck before 
By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt 

If more of horror or disgrace they bore ; 

But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out, 



Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven, 
And with the martyr's crown crownest a life 
With much to praise, little to be forgiven. 

Tom Taylor. 

Ci)e iBetnorjD of tf)e Beati. 

Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight ? 

Who blushes at the name ? 
When cowards mock the patriot's fate, 

Who hangs his head for shame ? 
He 's all a knave, or half a slave. 

Who slights his country thus; 
But a true man, like you, man, 

Will fill your glass with us. 

We drink the memory of the brave. 

The faithful and the few- 
Some lie far off beyond the wave — 

Some sleep in Ireland, too ; 
All, all are gone — but still lives on 

The fame of those who died — 



]98 SIXGLE FAMOUS F OEMS. 

All true men, like you, men, 
Remember them with pride. 

Some on the shores of distant lands 

Their weary hearts have laid, 
And by the stranger's heedless hands 

Their lonely graves were made ; 
But, though their clay be far away 

Beyond the Atlantic foam — 
In true men, like you, men. 

Their spirit 's stiR at home. 

The dust of some is Irish earth ; 

Among their own they rest ; 
And the same land that gave them birth 

Has caught them to her breast ; 
And we will pray that from their clay 

Full many a race may start 
Of true men, like you, men, 

To act as brave a part. 

They rose in dark and evil days 

To right their native land ; 
They kindled here a Hving blaze 

That nothing shall withstand. 
Alas! that might can vanquish right — 

They fell and passed away ; 
But true men, like you, men, 

Are plenty here to-day. 

Then here 's their memory — may it be 

For us a guiding light. 
To cheer our strife for liberty. 

And teach us to unite. 
Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, 

Though sad as theirs your fate ; 
And true men, be you, men, 

Like those of Ninety-Eight ! 

John Kells Ingram. 



THE BIVO UA G OF THE DEAD 197 

CJe Bibouac of tf)e Meais. 

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo ; 
ISTo more on hfe's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On fame's eternal camping ground 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And glory guards, with solemn round, 

The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

JSTow swells upon the wind ; 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind ; 
No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms ; 
No braying horn nor screaming fife 

At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust. 

Their plumed heads are bowed ; 
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 

Is now their martial sliroud. 
And plenteous funeral tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow, 
And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 

Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 

The bugle's stirring blast. 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade. 

The din and shout are past ; 
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal 

Shall thrill with fierce dehght 
Those breasts that never more may feel 

The rapture of the fight. 



198 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 

That sweeps his great plateau, 
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 

Came down the serried foe. 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o'er the field beneath, 
Knew well the watchword of that day 

Was " Victory or death." 

Long has the doubtful conflict raged 

O'er all that stricken plain, 
For never fiercer fight had Avaged 

The vengeful blood of Spain ; 
And still the storm of battle blew, 

Still swelled the gory tide ; 
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 
Such odds his strength could bide. 

'T was in that hour his stern command 

Called to a martyr's grave 
The floAver of his beloved land, 

The nation's flag to save. 
By rivers of their fathers' gore 

His first-born laurels grew, 
And well he deemed the sons would pour 

Their lives for glory too. 

Full many a norther's breath had swept 

O'er Angostura's plain — 
And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above the mouldering slain. 
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 

Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
Alone awakes each sullen height 

That frowned o'er that dread fray. 

Sons of the Dark and Bloody G-round, 
Ye must not slumber there. 



NEAREB, MY GOD, TO THEE. 199 

Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air; 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave ; 
She claims from war his richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 

So, 'neath their parent turf they resi, 

Far from the gory field, 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast, 

On many a bloody shield ; 
The sunshine of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here, 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The heroes' sepulchre. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, 

Dear as the blood ye gave ; 
No impious footstep here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave ; 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 

While Eame her record keeps. 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

Where Yalor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone, 

In deathless song shall tell. 
When many a vanished age hath flown, 

The story how ye fell ; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's Wight, 

Nor Time's remorseless doom. 
Shall dim one ray of glory's light 

That gilds your deathless tomb. 

Theodore O'Hara. 

iEeater, mg i^oti, to CJee, 

Nearer, my God, to thee, 
Nearer to thee ! 



200 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

E'en though it be a cross 

That raiseth me ; 
Still all my song shall be, 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee I 

Though, like the wanderer. 

The sun gone down, 
Darkness be over me, 

My rest a stone ; 
Yet in my dreams I 'd be 
Nearer, my Grod, to thee, 

Nearer to thee ! 

There let the way appear 

Steps unto heaven ; 
All that thou sendest me 

In mercy given ; 
Angels to beckon me 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee ! 

Then with my waking thoughts 

Bright with thy praise. 
Out of my stony griefs 

Bethel I 'U raise ; 
.So by my woes to be 
Nearer, my God, to thee. 

Nearer to thee ! 

Or if on joyful wing 

Cleaving the sky. 
Sun, moon, and stars forgot. 

Upward I fly ; 
Still all my song shall be, — 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee. 

Sarah Flower Ada:.is. 



LINES ON A SKELETON. 20I 

Hmeg on a S^^leton* 

Behold this ruin ! 'T was a skull 
Once of ethereal spirit full. 
This narrow cell was Life's retreat, 
This space was Thought's mysterious seat. 
What beauteous visions filled this spot, 
What dreams of pleasure long forgot ! 
Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear, 
Have left one trace of record here. 

Beneath this mouldering canopy 

Once shone the bright and busy eye, 

But start not at the dismal void, — 

If social love that eye employed, 

If with no lawless fire it gleamed. 

But through the dews of kindness beamed, 

That eye shall be forever bright 

When stars and sun are sunk in night. 

Within this hollow cavern hung 

The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue ; 

If Falsehood's honey it disdained. 

And when it could not praise was chained ; 

If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke, 

Yet gentle concord never broke, — 

This silent tongue shall plead for thee 

When Time unveils Eternity I 

Say, did these fingers delve the mine ? 
Or with the envied rubies shine ? 
To hew the rock, or wear a gem, 
Can httle now avail to them. 
But if the page of Truth they sought, 
Or comfort to the mourner brought, 
These hands a richer meed shall claim 
Than all that wait on Wealth and Fame. 
17* 



202 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS, 

Avails it whether bare or shod 
These feet the paths of dutj trod ? 
If from the bowers of Ease they fled, 
To seek Affliction's humble shed ; 
If Grrandem:'s guilty bribe they spurned, 
And home to Yirtue's cot returned, — 
These feet with angel-wings shall vie, 
And tread the palace of the sky. 

AxONTMOUi 

Cf)f ^3lace tojere i^an sf)iDulti IBie. 

How httle recks it where men he. 

When once the moment 's past 
In which the dim and glazing eye 

Has looked on earth its last, — 
Whether beneath the sculptured urn 

The coffined form shah rest. 
Or in its nakedness return 

Back to its mother's breast ! 

Death is a common friend or foe, 

As different men may hold. 
And at his summons each must go. 

The timid and the bold ; 
But when the sphit, free and warm, 

Deserts it, as it must, 
What matter where the hfeless form 

Dissolves again to dust ? 

The soldier faUs 'mid corses piled 

Upon the battle-plain. 
Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild 

Above the mangled slain ; 
But though his corse be grim to see, 

Hoof-trampled on the sod, 
What recks it, when the spirit free 

Has soared aloft to G-od ? 



A HUNDBED YEARS TO COME. 203 

The coward's dying eyes may close 

Upon his downy bed, 
And softest hands his limbs compose, 

Or garments o'er them spread. 
But ye who shun the bloody fray, 

When fall the mangled brave, 
Go — strip his coffin-lid away, 

And see him in his grave ! 

'T were sweet, indeed, to close our eyes, 

With those we cherish near, 
And, wafted upwards by their sighs, 

Soar to some calmer sphere. 
But whether on the scaffold high. 

Or in the battle's van. 
The fittest place where man can die 

Is where he dies for man ! 

Michael Joseph Barry. 



a JguntiretJ gears to (Eome* 

Where, where will be the birds that sing, 

A hundred years to come ? 
The flowers that now in beauty spring, 

A hundred years to come ? 
The rosy lips, the lofty brow. 
The heart that beats so gayly now. 
Oh, where will be love's beaming eye, 
Joy's pleasant smile, and sorrow's sigh, 

A hundred years to come ? 

Who '11 press for gold this crowded street, 

A hundred years to come ? 
Who '11 tread yon church with willing feet, 

A- hundred years to come? 
Pale trembling age, and fiery youth, 
And childhood with its brow of truth ; 



204 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

The rich and poor, on land and sea, — 
Where will the mighty millions be 
A hundred years to come ? 

We all within our graves shall sleep, 

A hundred years to come ; 
No living soul for us will weep, 

A hundred years to come. 
But other men our lands shall till, 
And others, then, our streets will fill, 
While other birds will sing as gay. 
As bright the sunshine as to-day, 

A hundi-ed years to come. 

William Goldsmith Brown. 



'^fjt Sottg of Steam. 

Harness me down with your iron bands. 

Be sure of your curb and rein, 
For I scorn the strength of your puny hands 

As the tempest scorns a chain. 
How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight, 

Tor many a countless hour, 
At the childish boast of human might, 

And the pride of human power. 

When I saw an army upon the land, 

A navy upon the seas, 
Creeping along, a snail-like band. 

Or waiting the wayward breeze, — 
When I marked the peasant faintly reel 

With the toil which he daily bore. 
As he feebly turned the tardy wheel. 

Or tugged at the weary oar, — 

When I measured the panting courser's speed. 
The flight of the carrier dove, 



THE SONG OF STEAM. 205 

As they bore the law a king decreed, 

Or the hnes of impatient love, 
I could but think how the world would feel, 

As these were outstripped afar. 
When I should be bound to the rushing keel, 

Or chained to the flying car. 

Ha, ha, ha ! They found me at last, 

They invited me forth at length. 
And I rushed to my throne with a thunder blast, 

And laughed in my iron strength ! 
Oh ! then ye saw a wondrous change 

On the earth and the ocean wide, 
Where now my fiery armies range. 

Nor wait for wind or tide. 

The ocean pales where'er I sweep, 

To hear my strength rejoice. 
And monsters of the briny deep 

Cower trembling at my voice. 
I carry the wealth and the lord of earth, 

The thoughts of his godlike mind ; 
The wind lags after my going forth, 

The lightning is left behind. 

In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine, 

My tireless arm doth play ; 
Where the rocks never saw the sun decline, 

Or the dawn of a glorious day ; 
I bring earth's glittering jewels up 

From the hidden caves below. 
And I make the fountain's granite cup 

With a crystal gush o'erflow. 

I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, 

In all the shops of trade ; 
I hammer the ore and turn the wheel 

Where my arms of strength are made. 
18 



206 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint, — 

I carry, I spin, I weave ; 
And all my doings I put into print 

On every Saturday eve. 

I 've no muscle to v^eary, no brains to decay, 

No bones to be " laid on the shelf," 
And soon I intend you may " go and play," 

While I manage the world myself. 
But harness me down with your iron bands, 

Be sure of your curb and rein, 
For I scorn the strength of your puny hands 

As the tempest scorns a chain, 

G-EORGE W. CUTIER. 



Why thus longing, thus forever sighing, 
For the far-off, unattained and dim, 

While the beautiful, all round thee lying, 
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ? 

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, 
AU thy restless yearnings it would stiU ; 

Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching 
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. 

Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee 
Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw — 

If no silken cord of love hath bound thee 
To some httle world through weal and woe ; 

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten — 
No fond voices answer to thine own ; 

If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten, 
By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 207 

Not by deeds that win. the crowd's applauses, 
Not by works that give thee world-renown, 

Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses, 

Canst thou win and wear the immortal croAvn. 

Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, 

Every day a rich reward will give ; 
Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only. 

And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 

Dost thou revel in the rosy morning. 

When all nature hails the lord of light, 
And his smile, the mountain-tops adorning. 

Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright ? 

Other hands may grasp the field and forest, 

Proud proprietors in pomp may shine ; 
But with fervent love if thou adorest, 

Thou art wealthier — all the world is thine. 

Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest, 

Sighing that they are not thine alone, 
Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest, 

And their beauty and thy wealth are gone. 

Nature wears the color of the spirit ; 

Sweetly to her worshiper she sings ; 
All the glow, the grace she doth inherit. 

Round her trusting child she fondly flings. 

Harriet Winslow Sewall. 



iaotSmg to Wltwc. 

Miss Flora M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, 
Has made three separate journeys to Paris, 
And her father assures me, each time she was there, 
That she and her friend Mrs. Harris 



208 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

(iSTot the lady whose name is so famous in history, 

But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery) 

Spent six consecutive weeks, without stopping, 

In one continuous round of shopping, — 

Shopping alone, and shopping together, • 

At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather. 

For all manner of things that a woman can put 

On the crown of her head, or the soul of her foot. 

Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist, 

Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, 

Or tied with a string, or stitched with a bow, 

In front or behind, above or below ; 

For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls ; 

Dresses for breakfast, and dinners, and balls ; 

Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in ; 

Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in ; 

Dresses ui which to do nothing at all ; 

Dresses for Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall ; — 

AH of them different in color and shape. 

Silk, muslin, and lace, velvet, satin, and crape, 

Brocade and broadcloth, and other material. 

Quite as expensive and much more ethereal ; 

In short, for all things that could ever be thought of. 

Or milliner, modiste^ or tradesman be bought of. 

From ten- thousand-franc robes to twenty-sous frills ; 
In all quarters of Paris, and to every store. 
While M'Flimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore. 

They footed the streets, and he footed the bills ! 

The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Argo, 
Formed, M'Flimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo, 
Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest. 
Sufficient to fill the largest sized chest. 
Which did not appear on the ship's manifest, 
But for which the ladies themselves manifested 
Such particular interest, that they invested 
Their own proper persons in layers and rows 



NOTHING TO WEAB. 209 

Of muslins, embroideries, worked under-clothes, 
Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those ; 
Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties. 
Gave good hy to the ship, and go hy to the duties. 
Her relations at home all marveled, no doubt. 
Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout 

For an actual belle and a possible bride ; 
But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out, 

And the truth came to light, and the dry-goods beside ; 
Which, in spite of Collector and Custom-House sentry, 
Had entered the port without any entry. 
And yet, though scarce three months have passed since 

the day 
This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway, 
This same Miss M'Fhmsey, of Madison Square, ' 
The last time we met was in utter despair, 
Because she had nothing whatever to wear I 

Nothing to wear ! Now, as this is a true ditty, 
I do not assert — this, you know, is between us — 

That she 's in a state of absolute nudity, 

Like Powers' Greek Slave, or the Medici Yenus ; 

But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare, 
When at the same moment she had on a dress 
Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less, 
And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess. 

That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear ! 

I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's 

Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers, 

I had just been selected as he who should throw all 

The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal 

On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections. 

Of those fossil remains which she called her " affections," 

And that rather decayed, but well-known work of art, 

Which Miss Flora persisted in styling her " heart." 

So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighted, 



2 1 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove, 
But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted, 
Beneath the gas-fixtures, we whispered our love. 
Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs, 
Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes, 
Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions, 
It was one of the quietest business transactions. 
With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any. 
And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany. 
On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss, 
She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis. 
And by way of putting me quite at my ease, 
" You know I 'm to polka as much as I please. 
And flirt when I like — now, stop, do n't you speak — 
And you must not come here more than twice in the 

week, 
Or talk to me either at party or ball. 
But always be ready to come when I call; 
So do n't prose to me about duty and stuff. 
If we do n't break this off, there will be time enough 
For that sort of thing ; but the bargain must be 
That, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free, — 
For this is a kind of engagement, you see. 
Which is binding on you, but not binding on me." 

Well, having thus wooed Miss M'FHmsey and gained her. 

With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her, 

I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder 

At least in the property, and the best right 

To appear as its escort by day and by night ; 

And it being the week of the Stuckup's grand ball, — 

Their cards had been out a fortnight or so, 

And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe, — 
I considered it only my duty to call. 

And see if Miss Flora intended to go. 
I found her — as ladies are apt to be found. 
When the time intervening between the first sound 



2s THING TO WEAK. 211 

Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter 

Than usual — I found ; I won't say — I caught her, 

Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning 

To see if perhaps it did n't need cleaning. 

She turned as I entered, — " Why, Harry, you sinner, 

I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner! " 

" So I did," I replied, "but the dinner is swallowed. 
And digested, I trust, for 't is now nine and more, 
So being relieved from that duty, I followed 

Inchnation, which led me, you see, to your door ; 
And now will your ladyship so condescend 
As just to inform me if you intend 
Your beauty, and graces, and presence to lend 
(All of which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow) 
To the Stuckups, whose party, you know, is to-morrow ? " 
The fair Flora looked up, with a pitiful air. 
And answered quite promptly, " Why, Harry, mon cher, 
I should like above all things to go with you there, 
But really and truly — I 've nothing to wear." 

"Nothing to wear ! go just as you are; 
Wear the dress you have on, and you '11 be by far, 
I engage, the most bright and particular star 

On the Stuckup horizon — " I stopped, for her eye, 
Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery, 
Opened on me at once a most terrible battery 

Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply, 
But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose, 
(That pure G-recian feature,) as much to say, 

" How absurd that any sane man should suppose 
That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes, 

No matter how fine, that she wears every day ! " 

So I ventured again : " Wear your crimson brocade ; " 
(Second turn up of nose) — " That 's too dark by a shade." 

'Your blue silk" — " That 's too heav}^" "Your pink" — 
" That's too hght." 

"Wear tulle over satin" — "I can't endure white." 



212 ' SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS 

*' Your rose-colored, then, the best of the batch." 
"I have n't a thread of point-lace to match." 
'' Your brown moire antique " — " Yes, and look hke a Qua- 
ker ; " 
" The pearl-colored " — " I would, but that plaguy dress- 
maker 
Has had it a week." — " Then that exquisite lilac, 
In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock; " 
(Here the nose took again the same elevation) — 
" I would n't wear that for the whole of creation." 

" Why not ? It 's my fancy, there 's nothing could strike it 
As more comme ilfauV — "Yes, but, dear me, that lean 

Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it. 
And I won't appear dressed hke a chit of sixteen." 
" Then that splendid purple, that sweet Mazarine ; 
That superb point cC aiguille, that imperial green, 
That zephyr-hke tarletan, that rich grenadine " — 
"Not one of all which is fit to be seen," 

Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed. 
" Then wear," I exclaimed in a tone which quite crushed 
Opposition, " that gorgeous toilette which you sported 
In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation, 
When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation, 
And by all the grand court were so very much courted." 
The end of the nose Tras portentously tipped up. 
And both the bright eyes shot focth indignation. 
As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation, 
" I have worn it three times, at the least calculation, 
And that and most of my dresses are ripped up ! " 
Here I ripped out something, perhaps rather rash. 

Quite innocent, though ; but, to use an expression 
More striking than classic, it "settled my hash," 
And proved very soon the last of our session. 
" Fiddlesticks, is it. sir ? I wonder the ceiling 
Does n't fall down and crush you, — you men have no feel- 
ing; 



NOTHI^'G TO WEAR. 213 

You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures, 
Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers, 
Your silly pretense, — why, what a mere guess it is ! 
Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities ? 
I have told you and shown you I 've nothing to wear, 
And it 's perfectly plain you not only do n't care, 
But you do not believe me," (here the nose went still 
higher.) 
" I suppose, if you dared, you would call me a har. 
Our engagement is ended, sir, — yes, on the spot ; 
You 're a brute, and a monster, and — I do n't know what." 
I mildly suggested the words Hottentot, 
Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief, 
As gentle expletives which might give relief; 
But this only proved as a spark to the powder, 
■ And the storm I had raised came faster and louder ; 
It blew and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailed 
Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed 
To express the abusive, and then its arrears 
Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears. 
And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs- 
Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs. 
Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too. 
Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo, 
In lieu of expressing the feehngs which lay 
Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say ; 
Then, without going through the form of a bow, 
Pound myself in the entry, I hardly knew how. 
On door-step and side-walk, past lamp-post and square, 
At home and up-stairs, in my own easy-chair ; 

Poked my feet into shppers, my fire into blaze, 
And said to myself, as I lit my cigar, 
" Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar 

Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days. 
On the whole do you think he would have much to spare, 
If he married a woman with nothing to wear ? " 
Since that night, taking pains that it should not be bruited 
18* 



214 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. 

Abroad in society, I 've instituted 

A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough. 

On this vital subject, and find, to my horror, 

That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising. 

But that there exists the greatest distress 
In our female community, solely arising 

From this unsupplied destitution of dress, 
Whose unfortunate victims are fiUing the air 
With the pitiful w^ail of "JSTothing to wear." 

Eesearches in some of the " Upper Ten " districts 

Reveal the most painful and startling statistics. 

Of which let me mention only a few : 

In one single house, on the Fifth Avenue, 

Three young ladies were found, all below twenty-two, 

Who have been three whole weeks without anything new 

In the way of flounced silks, and thus left in the lurch. 

Are unable to go to ball, concert, or church. 

In another large mansion, near the same place, 

Was found a deplorable, heart-rending case 

Of entire destitution of Brussels point-lace. 

In a neighbormg block there was found, in three calls, 

Total want, long continued, of camel's-hair shawls ; 

And a suffering family, whose case exhibits 

The most pressing need of real ermine tippets ; 

One deserving young lady almost unable 

To survive for the want of a new Russian sable : 

Still another, whose tortures have been most terrific 

Ever since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific, 

In which were ingulfed, not friend or relation, 

(For whose fate she perhaps might have found consolation. 

Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation,) 

But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and collars 

Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dollars. 

And all as to style most recherche and rare. 

The want of which leaves her with nothing to wear, 

And renders her hfe so drear and dyspeptic 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 215 

That she 's quite a recluse, and almost a skeptic, 

For she touchingiy says, that this sort of grief 

Cannot find in Religion the slightest relief, 

And Philosophy has not a maxim to spare 

For the victims of such overwhelming* despair. 

But the saddest, by far, of all these sad features, 

Is the cruelty practiced upon the poor creatures 

By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Timons, 

Who resist the most touching appeals made for diamonds 

By their wives and their daughters, and leave them for days 

TJnsupphed with new jewelry, fans, or bouquets, 

Even laugh at their miseries whenever they have a chance. 

And deride their demands as useless extravagance ; 

One case of a bride was brought to my view. 

Too sad for belief, but, alas! 't was too true. 

Whose husband refused, as savage as Charon, 

To permit her to take more than ten trunks to Sharon. 

The consequence was, that when she got there, 

At the end of three weeks she had nothing to wear, 

And when she proposed to finish the season 

At Newport, the monster refused, out and out, 

For his infamous conduct alleging no reason, 

Except that the waters were good for his gout ; 

Such treatment as this was too shocking, of course, 

And proceedings are now going on for divorce. 

But why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtain 

From these scenes of woe ? Enough, it is certain, 

Has here been disclosed to stir up the pity 

Of every benevolent heart in the city. 

And spur up Humanity into a canter 

To rush and relieve these sad cases instanter. 

Won't somebody, moved by this touching description, 

Come forward to-morrow and head a subscription ? 

Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid is 

So needed at once by these indigent ladies, 

Take charge of the matter ? Or won't Peter Cooper 



2 1 G SIXGLE FAMO US F OEJIS. 

The corner-stone laj of some new splendid super- 
Structure, like that which to-day links his name 
In the Union unending of Honor and Fame, 
And found a new charity just for the care 
Of these unhappy women with nothing to wear, 
Which, in view of the cash which would daily be claimed, 
The Laying-out Hospital well might be named ? 
Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods importers, 
Take a contract for clothing our wives and our daughters ? 
Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses, 
And life's pathway strew with shawls, coUars, and dresses. 
Ere the Tvant of them makes it much rougher and thornier, 
Won't some one discover a new California ? 

ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day 
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, 
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride, 
And the temples of Trade which tower on each side, 
To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Gruilt 
Their children have gathered, their city have built ; 
Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey, 

Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair ; 
Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt. 
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt, 

G-rope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair 
To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old, 
HaK starved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold ; 
See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet. 
All bleedmg and bruised by the stones of the street ; 
Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell 

From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor ; 
Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell, 

As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door ; 
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare, — 
Spoiled children of fashion, — ^you 've nothing to wear ! 

And 0, if perchance there should be a sphere 
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here. 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 217 

Where the glare and the glitter and tinsel of Time 
Fade and die in the hght of that region sublime, 
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, 
Unscreened by its trappings and shows and pretense, 
Must be clothed for the life and the service above. 
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love, 
daughters of Earth ! foolish virgins, beware ! 
Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear ! 

William Allen Butler. 

I AM dying, Egypt, dying. 

Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast. 
And the dark Plutonian shadows 

Gather on .the evening blast ; 
Let thine arms, Queen, infold me ; 

Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear ; 
Listen to the great heart-secrets. 

Thou, and thou alone, must hear. 

Though my scarred and veteran legions 

Bear their eagles high no more, 
And my wrecked and scattered galleys 

Strew dark Actium's fatal shore ; 
Though no glittering guards surround me, 

Prompt to do their master's will, 
I must perish like a Roman, 

Die the great Triumvir still. 

Let not Caesar's servile minions 

Mock the lion thus laid low ; 
'T was no foeman's arm that felled him — 

'T was his own that struck the blow,— 
His who, pillowed on thy bosom. 

Turned aside from glory's ray — 
His who, drunk with thy caresses, 

Madly threw a world away. 
19 



218 SJOsGLE FAJIO US F OEMS. 

Should tlie base plebeian rabble 

Dare assail my name at Rome, 
Where mv noble spouse, Octavia, 

Weeps within her widowed home, 
Seek her j say the gods bear witness — 

Altars, augurs, circling wings — 
That her blood, with mine commingled. 

Yet shall mount the throne of kings. 

As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian ! 

Grloiious sorceress of the Xile, 
light the path to Stygian horrors 

With the splendors of thy smile. 
Give the Cassar crowns and arches, 

Let his brow the laurel twine ; 
I can scorn the Senate's triumphs. 

Triumphing in love like thine. 

I am dying, Egypt, dying ; 

Hark ! the insulting f oeman's cry. 
They are coming ! quick, my falchion ! 

Let me front them ere I die. 
Ah ! no more amid the battle 

Shall my heart exulting swell — 
Isis and Osiris guard thee ! 

Cleopatra, Eome, farewell ! 

WiLLIAil HaIXES LtTLE. 



Cf)e Xautilus anH tje Emmonite, 

Thz nautilus and the ammonite 
Were launched in friendly strife, 

Each sent to float in its tiny boat 
On the wide, wide sea of Kfe. 

For each could swim on the ocean's brim, 
And, when wearied, its sail could furl, 



TEE NAUTILUS AND THE AMMONITE. 219 

And sink to sleep in the great sea-deep, 
In its palace all of pearl. 

And theirs was a bliss more fair than this 

Which we taste in our colder clime ; 
For they were rife in a tropic life — 

A brighter and better chme. 

They swam 'mid isles whose summer smiles 

Were dimmed by no alloy ; 
Whose groves were palm, whose air was balm, 

And hfe one only joy. 

They sailed all day through creek and bay. 

And traversed the ocean deep ; 
And at night they sank on a coral bank. 

In its fairy bowers to sleep. 

And the monsters vast of ages past 

They beheld in their ocean caves ; 
They saw them ride in their power and pride. 

And sink in their deep-cea graves. 

And hand in hand, from strand to strand, 

They sailed in mirth and glee ; 
These fairy shells, with their crystal cells, 

Twin sisters of the sea. 

And they came at last to a sea long past. 

But as they reached its shore. 
The Almighty's breath spoke out in death, 

And the ammonite was no more. 

So the nautilus now in its shelly prow, 

As over the deep it strays, 
Still seems to seek, in bay and creek, 

Its companion of other days. 



220 SrS'GLE FA2I0 US F OEMS. 

And alike do we, on life's stormy sea, 

As we roam from shore to shore, 
Thus tempest-tossed, seek the loved, the lost, 

And find them on earth no more. 

Tet the hope how sweet, again to meet, 

As we look to a distant strand, 
Where heart meets heart, and no more they part 

Who meet in that better land. 

As'OXY^tOUS. 

Ix their ragged regimentals 
Stood the old Continentals, 

Yielding not, 
When the grenadiers were lunging. 
And like hail fell the plunging 

Cannon-shot ; 

When the files 

Of the isles, [rampant 

From me smoKy night encampment, bore the banner of the 

Unicorn, [drummer, 

And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the 

Through the morn ! 

Then with eyes to the front all, 
And with guns horizontal, 

Stood our sires : 
And the balls whistled deadly. 
And in streams flashing redly 

Blazed the fires ; 

As the roar 

On the shore. 
Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres 

Of the plain ; 
And louder, louder, louder cracked the black gunpowder, 

Crackinor amain ! 



DORIS. 221 

Kow like smitlis at their forges 
Worked the red St. G-eorge's 

Cannoneers ; 
And the " villainous saltpetre " 
Rung a fierce, discordant metre 

Round their ears ; 

As the swift 

Storm-driffc, 
"With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guard's clangor 

On our flanks. 
Then higher, higher, higher burned the old-fashioned fire 

Through the ranks I 

Then the old-fashioned colonel 
Galloped through the white infernal 

Powder-cloud ; 
And his broadsword was swinging, 
And his brazen throat was ringing 
Trumpet loud. 
Then the blue 
Bullets flew. 
And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden 

Rifle-breath ; 
And rounder, rounder, rounder roared the iron six-pounder, 
Hurhng death I 

Guy Humphrey MpMastee^ 

I SAT with Doris, the shepherd maiden ; 

Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers. 
I sat and wooed her through sunlight wheeling. 

And shadows stealing for hours and hours. ■ 

And she my Doris, whose lap incloses 

Wild summer roses of faint perfume, 
The while I sued her, kept hushed and hearkened 

Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom. 



222 SINGLE FAMO US P OHMS. 

She touched my shoulder with fearful finger; 

She saidj " We linger, we must not stay ; 
My flock 's in danger, my sheep will wander ; 

Behold them yonder, how far they stray I " 

I answered bolder, " Nay, let me hear you, 
And still be near you, and still adore ! 

!N'o wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling — 
Ah 1 stay my darling a moment more ! " 

She whispered sighing, " There will be sorrow 
Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day ; 

My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded — 
I shall be scolded and sent away ! " 

'Said I replying, "If they do miss you, 

They ought to kiss you when you get home ; 
And well rewarded by friend and neighbor 
Should be the labor from which you come." 

" They might remember," she answered meekly, 
" That lambs are weakly and sheep are wild j 
But if they love me it 's none so fervent — 
I am a servant and not a child." 

Then each hot ember glowed quick within me, 
And love did win me to swift reply : • 
" Ah ! do but prove me, and none shall bind you, 
Nor fray nor find you until I die ! " 

She blushed and started, and stood awaiting, 

As if debating in dreams divine ; 
But I did brave them — I told her plainly, 

She doubted vainly, she must be mine. 

So we twin-hearted, from all the valley 
Did rouse and rally her nibbhng ewes ; 

And homeward drove them, we two together, 
Through blooming heather and gleaming dews. 



THE EXILE TO HIS WIFE. 223 

That simple duty such grace did lend her, 

My Doris tender, my Doris true, 
That I her warder did always bless her, 

And often press her to take her due. 

And now in beauty she fills my dwelling 

With love excelling, and undefiled ; 
And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent, 

No more a servant, nor yet a child. 

Arthur Munby. 

Cf)e ^xile to Jis 5Mife. 

Come to me, darHng, I 'm lonely without thee ; 
Day-time and night-time I 'm dreaming about thee ; 
Night-time and day-time in dreams I behold thee. 
Unwelcome the waking that ceases to fold thee. 
Come to me, darling, my sorrows to hghten ; 
Come in thy beauty, to bless and to brighten ; 
Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly ; 
Come in thy lovliness, queenly and holy. 

Swallows shall flit round the desolate ruin. 
Telling of Spring and its joyous renewing; 
As thoughts of thy love and its manifest treasure 
Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. 
O Spring of my heart I May of my bosom ! 
Shine out on my soul till it bourgeon and blossom. 
The waste of my life has a rose-root within it, 
And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. 

Figure which moves like a song through the even. 
Features lit up with a reflex of heaven, 
Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, 
Where sunshine and shadow are chasing each other ; 
Smiles coming seldom, but childhke and simple ; 
And opening their eyes from the heart of a dimple ; 
O, thanks to the Saviour that even the seeming 
Is left to the exile, to brighten his dreaming. 



224 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS 

You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened; 
Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened ? 
Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love. 
As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love ; 
I cannot smile but your cheeks will be glowing ; 
You cannot weep but my tears will be flowing ; 
You will not hnger when I shall have died, love ; 
I could not live without you at my side, love. 

Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow ; 

Eise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow ; 

Come swift and strong as the words which I speak, love, 

With a song on your lip and a smile on- your cheek, love 

Come, for my heart in your absence is dreary ; 

Haste, for my spirit is sickened and weary ; 

Come to the arms which alone shall caress thee ; 

Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee. 

Joseph Brenan. 

l^ocfe me to Sleep* 

Backward, turn backward, Time, in your flight, 
Make me a child again just for to-night ! 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
• Take me again to your heart as of yore ; 
Kiss from my forhead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; 
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ; — 
Eock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep ! 

Backward, flow backward, tide of the years ! 
I am so weary of toil and of tears, — 
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — 
Take them, and give me my childhood again ! 
I have grown weary of dust and decay, — 
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; 
Weary of sowing for others to reap ; — 
Eock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 



MOCK ME TO SLEEP. 225 

Tired of tlie hollow, the base, the untrue. 
Mother, mother, my heart calls for you ! 
Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
Blossomed and faded, our faces between ; 
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, 
Long I to-night for your presence again ; 
Come from the silence so long and so deep ;- 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 

Over my heart, in the days that are flown, 
No love hke mother-love ever has shone ; 
No other worship abides and endures, 
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours ; 
None like a mother can charm away pain 
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain : 
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy hds creep ; — ■ 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 

Come, let your brown hair, just Hghted with gold, 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 
Let it drop over my forehead to-night, 
Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; 
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; 
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long 
Since I last hstened your lullaby song ; 
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a dream ; 
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, 
With your light lashes just sweeping my face, 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 

Elizabeth Akers Allen. 



19* 



226 SINGLE FAJIOUS POEMS. 

OnljD a ^atg Small. 

Only a baby small, 

Dropt from tbe skies ; 
Only a laughing face, 

Two sunny eyes; 
Only two cherry lips, 

One chubby nose ; 
Only two httle hands, 

Ten little toes. 

Only a golden head. 

Curly and soft ; 
Only a tongue that wags 

Loudly and oft ; 
Only a little brain, 

Empty of thought ; 
Only a little heart, 

Troubled with nought. 

Only a tender flower 

Sent us to rear ; 
Only a life to love 

While we are here ; 
Only a baby small, 

i^erer at rest ; 
Small, but how dear to us, 

Grod knoweth best. 

Matthias Barr. 

C^e gollg (BVa ^Setiagcigue. 

'T WAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, 

TaU and slender, and sallow, and dry ; 
His form was bent, and his gait was slow. 
His long, thin hair was as white as snow ; 
But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye, 



THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 227 

And lie sang every nigM as lie went to bed, 
" Let us be happy down here below ; 
The living should live, though the dead be dead," 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He taught his scholars the rule of three. 
Writing, and reading, and history too, 
Taking the little ones on his knee, 
For a kind old heart in his breast had he, 

And the wants of the smallest child he knew : 
"Learn while you 're young," he often said, 
" There is much to enjoy down here below; 
Life for the living, and rest for the dead," 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

With stupidest boys, he was kind and cool. 

Speaking only in gentlest tones ; 
The rod was scarcely known in his school ; 
Whipping to him was a barbarous rule, 

And too hard work for his poor old bones; 
"Besides, it was painful," — he sometimes said, 
" We should make life pleasant here below, 
The living need charity more than the dead," 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, 
With roses and woodbine over the door ; 

His rooms were quiet "and neat and plain. 

But a spirit of comfort there held reign, 
And made him forget he was old and poor. 
" I need so little," he often said, 

" And my friends and relatives here below 

Won't htigate over me when I am dead," 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

But the most pleasant times that he had, of all, 
Were the sociable hours he used to pass, 



228 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS 

With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall, 
Makmg an unceremonious call, 

Over a pipe and a friendly glass ; — 
"This was the sweetest pleasure," he said, 
" Of the many I share in here below ; 
Who has no cronies, had better be dead," 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

The jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face 
Melted all over in sunshiny smiles ; — 
He stirred his glass with an old-school grace, 
Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace. 

Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles ; — 
"I 'm a pretty old man," he gently said, 
" I 've lingered a long while here below. 
But my heart is fresh, if my youth be fled ! " 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, 
Every night when the sun went down, 

While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, 

Leaving its tenderest kisses there 

On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown j 

And feeling the kisses, he smiled and said, 

" 'T is a glorious world down here below ; 

Why wait for happiness till we are dead ? " 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He sat at his. door one midsummer night, 

After the sun had sunk in the west, 
And the lingering beams of golden light 
Made his kindly old face look warm and bright. 

While the odorous night-wind whispered " Eest! " 
G-ently, gently he bowed his head, — 

There were angels waiting for him, I know ; 
He was sure of happiness, hving or dead, 

This jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

GrEORGE ArNOLD. 



ODE ON THE CENTENARY OF BURNS. 229 

(©tie on tje Otentenarg of IBurnjs* 

We hail this morn 
A century's noblest birth; 

A Poet peasant-born, 
Who piore of Fame's immortal dower 

Unto his country brings 

Than ah her kings ! 

As lamps high set 
Upon some earthly eminence ; 
And to the gazer brighter thence 
Than the sphere Hghts they flout — 

Dwindle in distance and die out, 

While no star waneth yet ; 
So through the past's far-reaching night 

Only the star-souls keep their light. 

A gentle boy, 
With moods of sadness and of mirth, 

Quick tears and sudden joy, 
G-rew up beside the peasant's hearth. 

His father's toil he shares ; 

But haK his mother's cares 

From his dark, searching eyes, 
Too swift to sympathize, 

Hid in her heart she bears. 

At early morn 
His father calls him to the field ; 
Through the stiff soil that clogs his feet. 

Chill rain, and harvest heat. 
He plods all day ; returns at eve outworn, 

To the rude fare a peasant's lot doth yield — 
To what else was he born ? 

The Grod-made king 
Of every hving thing ; 
20 



230 SIXGLE FJJfO US P OHMS. 

(For his great heart in lore could hold them all) ; 
The dumb eyes meeting his by hearth and stall — 

G-ifted to understand! — 

Knew it and sought his hand; 
And the most timorous cretaure had not fled 

Could she his heart have read, 
Which fain all feeble things had blessed and sheltered. 

To ITature's feast, 
Who knew her noblest guest 
And entertained him best, 
Eanglj he came. Her chambers of the east 
She draped with crimson and with gold, ' 
And poured her pure joy wines 
For him the poet-souled ; 
For him her anthem rolled 
From the storm- wind among the winter pines, 

Down to the slenderest note 
Of a love-warble from the linnet's throat 

But when begins 
The array for battle, and the trumpet blows, 
A king must leave the feast and lead the fight ; 

And with its mortal foes, 
Grim gathering hosts of sorrows and of sins, 

Each human soul must close ; 

And Fame her trumpet blew 
Before him, wrapped him in her purple state. 
And made him mark for aU the shafts of Fate 

That henceforth round him flew. 

Though he may yield. 
Hard-pressed, and wounded fall 
Forsaken on the field ; 
His regal vestments soiled ; 
His crown of half its jewels spoiled ; 
He is a kiner for all. 



ODE ON THE CENTENARY OF BURNS. 231 

Had lie but stood aloof ! 
Had he arrayed himself in armor proof 

Against temptation's darts ! 
So yearn the good — so those the world calls wise, 

With vain, presumptuous hearts, 
Triumphant moralize. 

Of martyr-woe 
A sacred shadow on his memory rests — 

Tears have not ceased to flow — • 
Indignant grief yet stirs impetuous breasts. 

To think — above that noble soul brought low, 
That wise and soaring spirit fooled, enslaved — 

Thus, thus he had been saved ! 

It might not be ! 

That heart of harmony 

Had been too rudely rent ; 
Its silver chords, which any hand could wound. 

By no hand coiild be tuned, 
Save by the Maker of the instrument, 

Its every string who knew, 
And from profaning touch his heavenly gift withdrew. 

Regretful love 

His country fain would prove, 
By grateful honors lavished on his grave ; 

"Would fain redeem her blame 
That he so Httle at her hands can claim, 

Who unrewarded gave 
To her his life-bought gift of song and fame. 

The land he trod 
Hath now become a place of pilgrimage ; 

Where dearer are the daisies of the sod 

That could his song engage. 

The hoary hawthorn, wreathed 
Above the bank on which his limbs he flung 



232 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

While some sweet plaint lie breathed ; 
The streams he wandered near ; 
The maidens whom he loved ; the songs he sung — 
All, all are dear I 

The arch blue eyes — 

Arch but for love's disguise — 
Of Scotland's daughters, soften at his strain ; 
Her hardy sons, sent forth across the main 
To drive the plowshare through earth's virgin soils, 

Lighten with it their toils : 
And sister-lands have learned to love the tongue 

In which such songs are sung. 

For doth not song 

To the whole world belong ? 
Is it not given wherever tears can fall. 
Wherever hearts can melt, or blushes glow, 
Or mirth and sadness mingle as they flow, 

A heritage to all ? 

IsA Craig Knox. 



(©ber tf)e iRiber. 

Over the river they beckon to me— 

Loved ones who 've passed to the further side: 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see. 

But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. 
There 's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue ; 
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view ; 
We saw not the angels who met him there, 

The gates of the city we could not see — 
Over the river, over the river. 

My brother stands waiting to welcome me ! 



OVEB THE BIVEE. 233 

Over the river the boatman pale 

Carried another, the household pet ; 
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — 

Darhng Minnie ! I see her yet. 
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 

And fearlessly entered the phantom bark, 
We felt it giide from the silver sands, 

And aU our sunshine grew strangely dark ; 
We know she is safe on the further side, 

Where all the ransomed and angels be — 
Over the river, the mystic river. 

My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 

Tor none return from those quiet shores, 

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars. 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail ; 
And lo ! they have passed from our yearning heart, 

They cross the stream and are gone for aye. 
We may not sunder the vail apart 

That hides from our vision the gates of day ; 
We only know that their barks no more 

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea — 
Yet, somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, 

They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river and hill and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold 

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar ; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; 
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, 

To the better shore of the spirit land. 
I shall know the loved who have gone before, 

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be. 
When over the river, the peaceful river. 

The Angel of Death shall carry me. 

Nancy Priest Wakefield. 



234 SINGLE FAMOUS F OEMS. 

" Come a little nearer, Doctor, — thank you ! — let me take 
the cup : 
Draw your chair up, — draw it closer, — ^just another httle 

, sup! 
May be you may think I 'm better ; but I 'm pretty well 

used up, — 
Doctor, you 've done aU you could do, but I 'm just a 
going up 1 

" Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it ain't much use to 

try "— 
" ISTever say that," said the Surgeon, as he smothered down 

a sigh; 
"It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say die! " 
" What you say will make no difference, Doctor, when you 

come to die. 

" Doctor, what has been the matter ? " " You were very 
faint, they say ; 
You must try to get to sleep now." " Doctor, have I been 
away?" 
"Not that anybody knows of!" "Doctor — Doctor, please 
to stay ! 
There is something I must tell you, and you won't have 
long to stay ! 

" I have got my marching orders, and I 'm ready now to go ; 
Doctor, did you say I fainted ? — but it could n't ha' been 

so, — 
For as sure as I 'm a Sergeant, and was wounded at Shi- 

loh, 
I 've this very night been back there, on the old field of Shi- 

loh! 



THE OLD SERGEANT. 235 

" This is all that I remember : Thq last time the Lighter 
came, 
And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises much 

the same, 
He had not been gone jB.ve minutes before something called 

my name : 
' Orderly Sergeant — Egbert Burton ! ' — just that way it 
called my name. 

" And I wondered who could call me so distinctly and so 

slow, 
Knew it could n't be the Lighter, — ^he could not have 

spoken so ; 
And I tried to answer, ' Here, sir ! ' but I could n't make 

itgo; 
For I couid n't move a muscle, and I could n't make it go ! 

" Then I thought : It 's all a nightmare, all a humbug and a 
bore; 
Just another foolish grape-vine^ — and it won't come any 

■ more; 
But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same way as be- 
fore : 
^ Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton I ' even plainer than 
before. 

" That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst of light, 
And I stood beside the Eiver, where we stood that Sunday 

night. 
Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluffs opposite, 
When the river was perdition and all hell was opposite I 

" And the same old palpitation came again in all its power, 
And I heard a Bugle sounding, as from some celestial 
Tower ; 

♦Canard. 



236 SIXGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 

And the same mTsterious voice said : ' It is the eleventh 

hour! 
Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton — It is the eleventh 

HOUR ! ' 

"Doctor Austin! — what day is this?" "It is Wednesday 

night, you know." 
"Yes, — to-morrow wiU be 'New Tear's, and a right good 
time below ! 
What time is it, Doctor Austin ? " " Xearly Twelve." " Then 

do n't you go ! 
Can it be that all this happened — all this — not an hour ago ! 

" There was where the gun-boats opened on the dark, re- 
bellious host ; 

And where Webster semicircled his last guns upon the 
coast ; 

There were still the two log-houses, just the same, or else 
their ghost, — 

And the same old transport came and took me over — or its 
ghost ! 

"And the old field lay before me all deserted far and wide ; 
There was where they feU on Prentiss, — there McClernand 

met the tide ; 
There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where Hurl- 

but's heroes died, — 
Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and kept 

charging tiU he died. 

" There was where Lew Wallace showed them he was of 
the canny kin, 

There was where old jSTelson thundered, and where Rous- 
seau waded in ; 

There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and we aU began to 
win — 

There was where the grape-shot took me, just as we be- 
gan to win. 



THE OLD SEEQEANT. 237 

"Kow, a shroud of snow and silence over everything was 

spread ; 
And but for this old blue mantle and the old hat on my 

head, 
I should not have even doubted, to this moment, I was 

dead, — 
Tor my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the dead ! 

" Death and silence ! — Death and silence ! all around me as 

I sped ! 
And behold, a mighty Tower, as if builded to the dead, — 
To the Heaven of the heavens, hfted up its mighty head, 
Till the Stars and Stripes of Heaven all seemed waving 

from its head I 

" Eound and mighty-based it towered — up into the infinite — 
And I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft so 

bright ; 
For it shone hke sohd sunshine; and a winding stair of 

hght. 
Wound around it and around it till' it wound clear out of 

sight ! 

" And, behold, as I approached it — with a rapt and dazzled 
stare, — 
Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the great 

Stair, — 
Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of — ' Halt, and who 

goes there ! ' 
'I 'm a friend,' I said, 'if you are.' — ' Then advance, sir, to 
the Stair I ' 

"I advanced! — That sentry. Doctor, was Elijah Ballan- 
tyne ! — 
First of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed the 
line: 
20* 



238 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. 

' Welcome, my old Serjeant, welcome ! Welcome by that 

countersign ! ' 
And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak of 
mine ! 

" As he grasped my hand, I shuddered, thinking only of the 
grave ; 
But he smiled and pointed upward with a bright and 
bloodless glaive : 

* That 's the way, sir, to Head-quarters.' — ' What Head- 
quarters ? ' — ' Of the Brave.' 

'But the great Tower ? ' — ' That,' he answered, ^Is the way, 
sir, of the Brave ! ' 

" Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform of hght; 
At my own so old and tattered, and at his so new and 

bright ; 
' Ah ! ' said he, ' you have forgotten the ISTew Uniform to- 
night,— 
Hurry back, for you must be here at just twelve o'clock 
to-night ! ' 

" And the next thing I remember, you were sitting there, 

and I — 
Doctor — did you hear a footstep ? Hark ! — G-od bless you 

aU ! aood-by ! 
Doctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack, when 

I die, 
To my Son — my Son that 's coming, — he won't get here 

tmidie! 

" Tell him his old father blessed him as he never did before, — 
And to carry that old musket" — Hark! a knock is at the 

door ! — 
" Till the Union " — See ! it opens ! — " Father ! Father ! speak 

once more ! " 
"Bless you/" — gasped the old gray Sergeant, and he lay 

and said no more. 

FORCETTHE WiLLSOX. 



TOO LATE. 239 

€00 Hate, 

" Ahl si la jeunesse savalt,— si la vleillesse pouvaitl " 

There sat an old man on a rock, 

And unceasing bewailed him of Fate, — 
That concern where we all must take stock. 
Though our vote has no hearing or weight ; 
And the old man sang him an old, old song, — 
Never sang voice so clear and strong 
That it could drown the old man's for long, 
For he sang the song " Too late ! too late I " 

' When we want, we have for our pains 

The promise that if we but wait 
Till the want has burned out of our brains, 
Every means shall be present to state ; 

While we send for the napkin the soup gets cold. 
While the bonnet is trimming the face grows old, 
When we 've matched our buttons the pattern is sold, 
And everything comes too late, — too late 1 

" When strawberries seemed like red heavens, — 
Terrapin stew a wild dream, — 
When my brain was at sixes and sevens. 
If my mother had ' folks ' and ice cream, 
Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger 
At the restaurant man and fruit-monger, — 
But oh ! how I wished I were younger 

When the goodies all came in a stream ! in a stream I 

" I 've a splendid blood horse, and — a liver 
That it jars into torture to trot; 
My row-boat 's the gem of the river, — 
Gout makes every knuckle a knot! 

I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Eome, 
But no palate for menus j— no eyes for a dome, — 
Those belonged to the youth who must tarry at home, 
When no home but an attic he 'd got, — he 'd got ! 



240 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

" How I longed, in that lonest of garrets, 
Wliere the tiles baked my brains all July, 
For ground to grow two pecks of carrots, 
Two pigs of my own in a sty, 

A rosebush, — a little thatched cottage, — 
Two spoons — ^love — a basin of pottage I — 
Now in freestone I sit, — and my dotage, — 

With a woman's chair empty close by, close by I " 

" Ah ! now, though I sit on a rock, 

I have shared one seat with the great; 
I have sat — knowing naught of the clock — 
On love's high throne of state ; 
But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed, 
To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed. 
And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed. 
Had they only not come too late, — too late ! " 

FiTz Hugh Ludlow. 

When another life is added 

To the heaving, turbid mass ; 
When another breath of being 

Stains creation's tarnished glass ; 
When the first cry, weak and piteous. 

Heralds long-enduring pain. 
And a soul from non-existence 

Springs, that ne'er can die again ; 
When the mother's passionate welcome, 

Sorrow-like, bursts forth in tears. 
And a sire's self-gratulation 

Prophesies of future years, — 

It is well we cannot see 
What the end shall be. 

When across the infant features 
Trembles the faint dawn of mind, 



WHAT TEE END SHALL BE. 241 

And the heart looks from the windows 

Of the eyes that were so bhnd ; 
When the inarticulate murmurs 

Syllable each swaddled thought, 
To the fond ear of affection 

With a boundless promise fraught ; 
Kindling great hopes for to-morrow 

From that dull, uncertain ray, 
As by glimmering of the twilight 

Is foreshown the perfect day, — 

It is well we cannot see 
What the end shall be. 

When the boy, upon the threshold 

Of his all-comprising home, 
Puts aside the arm maternal 

That enlocks him ere he roam ; 
When the canvas of his vessel 

Flutters to the favoring gale, 
Years of solitary exile 

Hid behind the sunny sail : 
When his pulses beat with ardor, 

And his sinews stretch for toil. 
And a hundred bold emprises 

Lure him to that eastern soil, — 

It is well we cannot see 
What the end shall be. 

When the youth beside the maiden 

Looks into her credulous eyes, 
And the heart upon the surface 

Shines too happy to be wise ; 
He by speeches less than gestures 

Hinteth what her hopes expound, 
Laying out the waste hereafter 

Like enchanted garden-ground ; 
He may falter — so do many ; 

She mav suffer — so must all : 
21 



242 SIXGLE FA3I0 US P OEMS. 

Both may yet, world- disappointed, 
This lost hour of love recall, — 

It is well we cannot see 
What the end shall be. 

When the altar of religion 

G-reets the expectant bridal pair, 

And the vow that lasts till dying- 
Vibrates on the sacred air ; 

When man's lavish protestations 
Doubts of after-change defy. 

Comforting the frailer spirit 
Bound his servitor for aye ; 

When beneath love's silver moonbeams 
Many rocks in shadow sleep. 

Undiscovered, till possession 

Shows the danger of the deep, — 

It is well we cannot see 
What the end shall be. 

Whatsoever is beginning, 

That is wrought by human skill ; 
Every daring emanation 

Of the mind's ambitious will ; 
Every first impulse of passion, 

G-ush of love or twinge of hate ; 
Every launch upon the waters 

Wide-horizoned by our fate ; 
Every venture in the chances 

Of life's sad, oft desperate game. 
Whatsoever be our motive, 

Whatsoever be our aim, — 

It is weU we cannot see 
What the end shall be. 

A yoxYiious. 



THE TWO WORLDS. 2i3 

Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain, 
Whose magic joys we shall not see again; 

Bright haze of morning veils its glimmermg shore. 
Ah, truly breathed we there 
Intoxicating air — 
Glad were our hearts in that sweet realm of 
I^evermore. 

The lover there drank her delicious breath 
Whose love has yielded since to change or death ; 

The mother kissed her child, whose days are o'er. 
Alas ! too soon have fled 
The irreclaimable dead : 
We see them — visions strange — amid the 
jSTevermore. 

The merrysome maiden used to sing — 
The brown, brown hair that once was wont to cling 
To temples long clay-cold : to the very core 
They strike our weary hearts, 
As some vexed memory starts 
From that long faded land — the realm of 
Nevermore. 

It is perpetual summer there. But here 
Sadly may we remember rivers clear, 

And harebells quivering on the meadow-floor. 
For brighter bells and bluer. 
For tenderer hearts and truer 
People that happy land — the realm of 
Nevermore. 

Upon the frontier of this shadowy land 
We pilgrims of eternal sorrow stand : 

What realm lies forward, with its liappier store 



244 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS 

Of forests green and deep, 
Of valleys hushed in sleep, 
And lakes most peaceful ? 'T is the land of 
Evermore. 

Very far off its marble cities seem — 
Very far off — beyond our sensual dream — 

Its vroods, unruffled by the wild wind's roar ; 
Yet does the turbulent surge 
Howl on its very verge. 
One moment — and we breathe within the 
Evermore. 

They whom we loved and lost so long ago 
Dwell in those cities, far from mortal wo — 

Haunt those fresh woodlands, whence sweet carolings 
soar. 
Eternal peace have they; 
God wipes their tears away : 
They drink that river of hfe which flows from 
Evermore. 

Tliither we hasten through these regions dim, 
But, lo, the wide wings of the Seraphim 

Shine in the sunset! On that joyous shore 
Our lightened hearts shall know 
The life of long ago : 
The sorrow-burdonod past shall fade for 
Evermore. 

Mortimer Collixs. 

Uain on tje l^oot 

When the humid shadows hover 

Over all the starry spheres, 
And the melancholy darkness 

Gently weeps in rainy tears, 



BAIN ON THE BOOR 245 

What a bliss to press the pillow 

Of a cottage-chamber bed 
And to listen to the patter 

Of the soft rain overhead ! 

Every tinkle on the shingles 

Has an echo in the heart ; 
And a thousand dreamy fancies 

Into busy being start, 
And a thousand recollections 

Weave their air-threads into woof, 
As I listen to the patter 

Of the rain upon the roof. 

Kow in memory comes my mother, 

As she used long years agone, 
To regard the darling dreamers 

Ere she left them till the dawn : 
! I see her leaning o'er me. 

As I list to this refrain 
Which is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

Then my little seraph sister, 

With her wings and waving hair. 
And her star-eyed cherub brother — ■ 

A serene angelic pair ! — 
Glide around my wakeful pillow, 

With their praise or mild reproof, 
As I listen to the murmur 

Of the soft rain on the roof. 



With her eyes' delicious blue ; 
And I mind not, musing on her, 

That her heart was all untrue : 
I remember but to love her 

With a passion kin to pain. 



246 SIXGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

And mj heart's quick pulses vibrate 
To the patter of the rain. 

Art hath naught of tone or cadence 

That can work with such a spell 
In the soul's mysterious fountains. 

Whence the tears of rapture well. 
As that melody of nature, 

That subdued, subduing strain 
Which is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

COATES KlXXEY. 

Wee Wilhe Winkie rins through the town, 
Up-stairs and doon-stairs, in his nicht-gown, 
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, 
" Are the weans in their bed ? — for it "s now ten o'clock." 

Hey, Wnhe Winkie ! are ye comin' ben ? 

The cat 's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, 

The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep ; 

But here 's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep. 

Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue ! glow'rin' like the moon, 
Rattlin' in an aim jug wi' an airn spoon, 
Eumbhn' tumbhn' roun' about, crowin' Uke a cock, 
Skirlin' hke a kenna-what — wauknin' sleepin' folk. 

Hey. Willie Winkie ! the wean 's in a creel ! 
Waumblin' aflf a body's knee hke a vera eel 
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and raveUin' a' her thrums, — 
Hey, WiUie Winkie ! — See, there he comes ! 

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, 
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane, 
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he 'U close an ee ; 
But a kiss frae aff his rosy Hps gies strength anew to me. 

WiLLiA3i Miller. 



THE OLD CANOE. 247 

Where the rocks are gray and the shore is steep, 
And the waters below look dark and deep, 
Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride, 
Leans gloomily over the murky tide. 
Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank, 
And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank. 
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through, — 
There hes at its moorings the old canoe. 

The useless paddles are idly dropped. 

Like a sea-bird's wings that the storm had lopped. 

And crossed on the railing one o'er one. 

Like the folded hands when the work is done ; 

While busily back and forth between 

The spider stretches his silvery screen, 

And the solemn owl, with his dull " too-hoo," 

Settles down on the side of the old canoe. 

The stern, half sunk in the slimy wave, 

Rots slowly away in its living grave, 

And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay. 

Hiding its mouldering dust away. 

Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower, 

Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower ; 

While many a blossom of loveliest hue 

Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe. 

The currentless waters are dead and still, 
But the light wind plays with the boat at will, 
And lazily in and out again ; 

It floats the length of the rusty chain. 
Like the weary march of the hands of time, 
That meet and part at the noontide chime ; 
And the shore is kissed at each turning anew, 
By the drippling bow of the old canoe. 



248 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Oh, many a time, with a careless hand, 
I hare pushed it away from the pebbly strand. 
And paddled it down where the stream runs quick, 
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick, 
And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side. 
And looked below in the broken tide. 
To see that the faces and boats were two, 
That were mirrored back from the old canoe. 

Bat now, as I lean o'er the ci-umbhng side, 

And look below in the sluggish tide. 

The face that I see there is graver grown, 

And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone, 

And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings 

Have grown familiar with sterner things. 

But I love to tliink of the hours that sped 

As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed, 

Ere the blossoms waved, or the green gfi^ss grew 

O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe. 

AS'ONYMOUS. 



A very old man in an alms-house was asted what he was doing now. 
He replied, "Only waiting." 

Only waiting till the shadows 

Are a little longer grown ; 
Only waiting till the ghmmer 

Of the day's last beam is flown ; 
Till the night of earth is faded 

From the heart once full of day ; 
Till the stars of heaven are breaking 

Through the twihght soft and gray. 

Only waiting till the reapers 

Have the last sheaf gathered home ; 



THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 249 

For the summer-time is faded, 

And the autumn winds have come. 

Quickly, reapers, gather quickly 
The last ripe hours of my heart, 

For the bloom of hfe is withered, 
And I hasten to depart. 

Only waiting till the angels 

Open wide the mystic gate, 
At whose feet I long have lingered, 

Weary, poor, and desolate. 
Even now I hear the footsteps, 

And their voices far away ; 
If they call me, I am waiting, 

Only waiting to obey. 

Only waiting till the shadows 

Are a little longer grown ; 
Only waiting till the glimmer 

Of the day's last beam is flown ; 
Then from out the gathered darkness, 

Holy, deathless stars shall rise, 
By whose light my soul shall gladly 

Tread its pathway to the skies. 

Anonymous. 



CJe IBurial of J^oses. 

" ^nd tie buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against 
Beth-peor ; bnt no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." Deut. 
xxxiv : 6. 

By Xebo's lonely mountain. 
On this side Jordan's wave, 

In a vale in the land of Moab, 
There lies a lonely grave ; 

But no man dug that sepulchre, 
And no man saw it e'er, 

21* 



250 • SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

For the angels of God upturned the sod, 
And laid the dead man there. 

That was the grandest funeral 

That ever passed on earth ; 
But no man heard the tramping, 

Or saw the train go forth ; 
Noiselessly as the daylight 

Comes when the night is done. 
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 

G-rows into the great sun, — 

Noiselessly as the spring-time 

Her crown of verdure weaves. 
And all the trees on all the hills 

Open their thousand leaves, — 
So, without sound of music, 

Or voice of them that wept. 
Silently down from the mountain crown 

The great procession swept. 

Perchance the bald old eagle. 

On gray Beth-peor's height, 
Out of his rocky eyrie. 

Looked on the wondrous sight. 
Perchance the lion, stalking. 

Still shuns the hallowed spot; 
For beast and bird have seen and heard 

That which man knoweth not. 

Lo ! when the warrior dieth. 

His comrades in the war, 
With arms reversed, and muffled drum. 

Follow the funeral car. 
They show the banners taken, 

They tell his battles won. 
And after him lead his masterless steed, 

While peals the minute gun. 



THE BUBIAL OF MOSES. 251 

Ami(^ the noblest of the land 

Men lay the sage to rest^ 
And give the bard an honored place, 

With costly marble dressed, 
In the great minster transept. 

Where lights like glories fall, 
And the choir sings, and the organ rings 

Along the emblazoned wall 

This was the bravest warrior 

That ever buckled sword ; 
This the most gifted poet 

That ever breathed a word; 
And never earth's philosopher 

Traced, with his golden pen. 
On the deathless page, truths half so sage 

As he wrote down for men. 

And had he not high honor ? 

The hill-side for his pall. 
To lie in state while angels wait. 

With stars for tapers tall ; 
And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, 

Over his bier to wave ; 
And Grod's own hand, in that lonely land, 

To lay him in the grave, — 

In that deep grave, without a name. 

Whence his uncoffined clay 
Shall break again, — wondrous thought ! — 

Before the judgment day; 
And stand, with glory wrapped around, 

On the hills he never trod, 
And speak of the strife that won our life, 

With the incarnate Son of God. 

lonely torab in Moab's land ! 
dark Beth-peor's hill ! 



SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 

And teach them to be still. 
G-od hath his mysteries of grace, — 

Ways that we cannot tell ; 
He hides them deep, like the secret sleep 

Of him he loved so well. 

Cecil Frances Alexander. 

I AM old and blind ! 
Men point at me as smitten by Grod's frown ; 
Afflicted and deserted of my kind, 

Yet am I not cast down. 

I am weak, yet strong : 
I murmur not that I no longer see ; 
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong. 

Father Supreme, to Thee. 

merciful One ! 

"When men are farthest, then art Thou most near ; 
When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun. 
Thy chariot I hear. 

Thy glorious face 
Is leaning towards me, and its holy hght 
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place, — 

And there is no more night. 

On my bended knee, 
I recognize Thy purpose, clearly shown ; 
My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see 

Thyself— Thyself alone. 

1 have naught to fear ; 

This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing ; 
Beneath it I am almost sacred, — here 
Can come no evil thino:. 



CURFEW MUST NOT BING TO-NIGHT. 2o3 

Oh, I seem to stand 
Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, 
Wrapped in the radiance of Thy sinless hand 

Which eye hath never seen. 

Visions come and go, — 
Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng ; 
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow 

Of soft and holy song. 

It is nothing now, — 
When Heaven is ripening on my sightless eyes, 
When airs from Paradise refresh my brow, 

That earth in darkness hes. 

In a purer clime, 
My being fills with rapture, — waves of thought 
EoU in upon my spirit, — strains sublime 

Break over me unsought. 

Grive me now my lyre \ 
I feel the stirrings of a gift divine ; 
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire, 

Lit by no skill of mine. 

Elizabeth Lloyd Howell. 

(Kurfeb MmX mi Hmg Cci^nigf)t» 

England s sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far away, 
Filhng all the land with beauty at the close of one sad 

day; 
And the last rays kiss'd the forehead of a man and maiden 

fair. 
He with step so slow and weakened, she with sunny, 

floating hair ; 
He with sad bowed head, and thoughtful, she with lips so 

cold and white, 
Struggling to keep back the murmur, " Curfew must not 

ring to-night." 
22 



254 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS 

" Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison 

old, 
"With its walls so dark and gloomy, — walls so dark, and 

damp, and cold, — 
" I 've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die, 
At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. 
Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her face grew 

strangely white, 
As she spoke in husky whispers, " Curfew must not ring 

to-night." 

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton— every word pierced her 
young heart 
Like a thousand gleaming arrows — like a deadly poisoned 
dart; 
" Long, long years I 've rung the Curfew from that gloomy 
shadowed tower ; 
Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour ; 
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, 
Now I 'm old, I will not miss it; gu'l, the Curfew rings to- 
night! " 

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and wliite her 

thoughtful brow, 
And within her heart's deep centre, Bessie made a solemn 

vow; 
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or 

sigh, 
" At the ringing of the Curfew — Basil Underwood must die.^^ 
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew 

large and bright — • 
One low murmur, scarcely spoken — " Curfew must not ring 

to-night 1 " 

She with hght step bounded forward, sprang within the old 
church door. 

Left the old man coming slowly, paths he 'd trod so oft be- 
fore : 



ClTxFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. 255 

Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and 

brow aglow, 
Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to 

and fro : 
Then she climbed the sHmy ladder, dark, without one ray 

of light, 
Upward still, her pale lips saying: ''Curfew shall not ring 



She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the 
great dark bell. 

And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down 
to hell ; 

See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 't is the hour of 
Curfew now — 

And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath 
and paled her brow. 

Shall she let it ring? No, never! her eyes flash with sud- 
den light, 

As she springs and grasps it firmly — '' Curfew shall not 
ring to-night ! " 

Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a tiny speck be- 
low; 

There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell 
swung to and fro ; 

And the half-deaf Saxon ringing (years he had not heard 
the bell,) 

And he thought the twihght Curfew rang young Basil's 
funeral knell ; 

Still the maiden clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale 
and white, 

Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating — " Curfew shall 
not ring to-night." 

It was o'er — the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden 

stepped once more 
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for hundred years 

before 



256 SIXGLB FAJIO US P OEMS. 

Human foot had not been planted; and what she this 

night had done, 
Should be told in long years after — as the rays of setting 

sun 
Light the sky vrith mellow beauty, aged sires with heads 

of white, 
Tell their children why the Curfew did not ring that one 

sad night. 

O'er the distant hiUs came Cromwell; Bessie saw him, 

and her brow, 
Lately white with sickening terror, glows with sudden 

beauty now ; 
At his feet she told her story, showed her hands all bruised 

and torn ; 
And her sweet young face so haggard, with a look so sad 

and worn, 
Touched his heart with sudden pity — ht his eyes with 

misty hght ; 
" Gro, your lover lives ! " cried Cromwell ; " Curfew shaU not 

ring to-night." 

Anonymous. 

We meet 'neath the sounding rafter, 

And the walls around are bare ; 
As they echo the peals of laughter 

It seems that the dead are there ; 
But stand to your glasses steady, 

We drink to our comrades' eyes ; 
Quaff a cup to the dead already — 

And hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Not here are the goblets flowing, 

Not here is the vintage sweet ; 
'T is cold, as our hearts are gTOwing, 

And dark as the doom we meet. 



REVELB Y IN INDIA. 257 

But stand to your glasses steady, 

And soon shall our pulses rise ; 
A cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, 

Not a tear for the friends that sink ; 
We '11 fall, 'midst the wine-cup's sparkles, 

As mute as the wine we drink. 
So stand to your glasses steady, 

'T is in this that our respite lies; 
One cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Time was when we frowned at others, 

We thought we were wiser then ; 
Ha ! ha ! let those think of their mothers, 

Who hope to see them again. 
No ! stand to your glasses steady. 

The thoughtless are here the wise ; 
A cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

There 's many a hand that 's shaking, 

There 's many a cheek that 's sunk ; 
But soon, though our hearts are breaking, 

They '11 burn with the wine we 've drunk. 
So stand to your glasses steady, 

'T is here the revival lies; 
A cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

There 's a mist on the glass congealing, 

'T is the hurricane's fiery breath ; 
And thus does the warmth of ieehng 

Turn ice in the grasp of death. 
Ho ! stand to your glasses steady ; 

For a moment the vapor flics ; 



2-33 SmOLE FA3I0US POEMS. 

A cup to the dead already — 
Hurrah for the nest that dies ! 

Who dreads to the dust returnmg ? 

Who shrmks from the sable shore, 
Where the high and haughty yearning 

Of the soul shall sing no more ? 
Ho ! stand to your glasses steady ; 

This world is a world of hes ; 
A cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Cut off from, the land that bore us, 

Betrayed by the land we find, 
Where the brightest have gone before us, 

And the dullest remain behiud — 
Stand, stand to your glasses steady ! 

'T is all we have left to prize ; 
A cup to the dead already — 

And hurrah for the next that dies ! 

BARTHOLOiEEW DoWLING. 



CJe UimxQ of tfjt iHoon. 

'• 0, THEN tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, 

TeU me why you hurry so." 
"Hush, ma bouchal, hush and hsten,"- 

And hLf cheeks were all aglow. 
" I bear ordhers from the captain, 

Gret you ready quick and soon, 
For the pikes must be together 

At the risin' of the moon." 

" 0, then tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, 
Where the gatherin' is to be," 

" In the ould spot by the river, 

Right well known to vou and me. 



3IY MARYLAND. 259 

One word more — for signal token 

Whistle up the marchm' tune, 
With your pike upon your shoulder, 

By the risin' of the moon." 

Out from many a mud-wall cabin 

Eyes were watching through that night ; 
Many a manly chest was throbbing 

For the blessed warning light. 
Murmurs passed along the valleys, 

Like the banshee's lonely croon, 
And a thousand blades were flashing, 

At the rising of the moon. 

There beside the singing river 

That dark mass of men was seen ; 
Far above the shining weapons 

Hung their own beloved green. 
" Death to every foe and traitor ! 

Forward ! strike the marchin' tune, 
And hurrah, my boys, for freedom ! — 

'T is the risin' of the moon." 

Well they fought for poor old Ireland, 

And full bitter was their fate. 
0, what glorious pride and sorrow 

Fill the name of Ninety -Eight ! 
Yet, thank God ! e'en still are beating 

Hearts in manhood's burning noon, 
Who would follow in their footsteps 

At the risin' of the moon. 

John K. Casey. 

The despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maryland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 

Maryland I 



260 SIXGLE FAJIO US P OEMS. 

Avenge the patriotic gore 
That flecked the streets of Bakimore, 
And be the battle queen of yore, 
Maryland, My Maryland ! 

Hark to a wandering son's appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My mother state, to thee I kneel, 

Maryland ! 
For life and death, for woe and weal, 
Thy peerless chiyahy reveal. 
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 
Maryland, My Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy beaming sword shall never rust, • 

Maryland ! 
Remember Carroll's sacred trust. 
Remember Howard's warlike thrust, 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 
Maryland, My Maryland. 

Come, 't is the red dawn of the day, 

Maryland ! 
Come with thy panophed array, 
Maryland ! 
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray. 
With Watson's blood at Monterey, 
With fearless Lowe and dashing May, 
Maryland, My Maryland. 

Dear mother, burst the tyrant's chain, 
Maryland ! 

Virginia should not call in vain, 
Maryland ! 

She meets her sisters on the plain ; 
" Sic semper ! " 't is the proud refrain, 



3fr MARYLAND. 261 

That baffles minions back amain, 
Maryland, My Maryland ! 

Come, for thy shield is bright and strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come, for thy dalhance does thee wrong, 

Alary land ! 
Come to thine own heroic throng, 
That stalks with liberty along. 
And give a new key to thy song, 
Maryland, My Maryland ! 

I see the blash upon thy cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But thou wast ever bravely meek, 

Maryland ! 
But lo ! there surges forth a shriek 
From hill to hill, from creek to creek; 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland, My Maryland! 

Thou wilt not yield the Yandal toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland ! 
Better the fire upon thee roll, 
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, 
Than crucifixion of the soul, 

Maryland, My Maryland I 

I hear the distant thunder hum, 
Maryland ! 
The Old Line's bugle, fi''e, and drum, 

Maryland ! 
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb — 
Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum ; 
She breathes, she burns — she '11 come ! she '11 come ! 
Maryland, My Maryland ! 

James R. Randall, 



262 SINGLE FA3I0US F OEMS. 

'• KiFLEMA>f, shoot me a fancy shot 

Straight at the heart of yon prowHng vidette; 
Eing me a ball in the gUttering spot 

That shines on his breast hke an amulet! " 

'* Ah, captain ! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, 

There 's music around when my barrel 's in tune ! " 
Crack ! went the rifle, the messenger sped, 
And dead from his horse feU the ringing dragoon. 

"XoW; rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch 
Ti-om your victim some trinket to handsel first blood ; 
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch 

That gleams in the moon hke a diamond stud ! " 

" Oh captain ! I staggered, and sunk on my track. 
When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette, 
For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back. 
That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet. 

'• But I snatched off" the trinket, — this locket of gold ; 
An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, 
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, 
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." 

" Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket! — 't is she, 

]My brother's young bride, — and the fallen dragoon 
Was her husband — Hush! soldier, 't was Heaven's decree, 
We must bury him there, by the light of the moon ! 

"But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite; 
War is a virtue, weakness a sin ; 
There 's a lurking and loping around us to-night ; — 
Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in ! " 

AXOXYMOUS. 



THE PICKET G UAEB. 263 

^i^e licltet OBuarti. 

"All quiet along the Potomac," they say, 
" Except now and then a stray picket 
Is shot, as he walks on liis beat, to and fro. 

By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 
'T is nothing — a private or two, now and then, 

Will not count in the news of the battle ; 
Not an officer lost — only one of the men, 
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle." 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night. 

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; 
Their tents in the rays of the clear autunm moon, 

Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. 
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night- wind 

Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping ; 
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, 

Keep guard — for the army is sleeping. 

There 's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, 

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain. 
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed 

Far away in the cot on the mountain. 
His musket falls slack — his face, dark and grim, 

G-rows gentle with memories tender. 
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep — 

For their mother — may Heaven defend her ! 

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, 

That night, when the love yet unspoken 
Leaped up to his lips — when low-murmured vows 

Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, 

He dashes off tears that are welling. 
And gathers his gun closer up to its place 

As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 



264 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree — 

The footstep is lagging and weary ; 
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, 

Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 
Hark ! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves ? 

Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing ? 
It looked like a rifle — " Ah ! Mary, good-bye ! " 

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night. 

No sound save the rush of the river ; 
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead — 

The picket 's off duty forever. 

Ethel Lynn Beers, 



Alas ! the weary hours pass slow, 

The night is very dark and stiU, 
And in the marshes far below 

I hear the bearded whippoorwill. 
I scarce can see a yard ahead ; 

My ears are strained to catch each sound ; 
I hear the leaves about me shed. 

And the spring's bubbling through the ground. 

Along the beaten path I pace, 

Where white rags mark my sentry's track ; 
In formless shrubs I seem to trace 

The foeman's form, with bending back ; 
I think I see him crouching low — 

I stop and list — I stoop and peer. 
Until the neighboring hillocks grow 

To groups of soldiers far and near. 

With ready piece I wait and watch, 
Until my eyes, familiar grown. 



SHERMAN'S IIARCE TO THE SEA. 265 

Detect each harmless earthen notch, 

And turn guerillas mto stone ; 
And then amid the lonely gloom, 

Beneath the tall old chestnut trees. 
My silent marches I resume, 

And think of other times than these. 

"Halt! who goes there?" my challenge cry, 

It rings along the watchful hne ; 
" Kehef ! " I hear a voice reply — , 

" Advance, and give the countersign ! " 
. "With bayonet at the charge I wait — 
The corporal gives the mystic spell; 
With arms aport I charge my mate, 
Then onward pass, and all is well. 

But in the tent that night awake, 

I ask, if in the fray I fall, 
Can I the mystic answer make, 

When the angelic sentries call ? 
And pray that Heaven may so ordain, 

Where'er I go, what fate be mine, 
Whether in pleasure or in pain, 

I still may liave the countersign. 

Anonymous. 



SS^tman's i^arcf) to tje Sea, 

Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountain 

That frowned on the river below. 
As we stood by our guns in the morning. 

And eagerly watched for the foe ; 
When a rider came out of the darkness 

That hung over mountain and tree. 
And shouted, " Boys, up and be ready ! 

For Sherman will march to the sea ! " 



206 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 

Then clieer upon cheer for bold Sherman 

Went up fi'om each valley and glen, 
And the bugles re-echoed the music 

That came from the lips of the men ; 
For we knew that the stars in our banner 

More bright in their splendor would be, 
And that blessings from ISTorthland would greet us, 

When Sherman marched down to the sea. 

Then forward, boys ! forward to battle ! 

We marched on our wearisome way, 
We stormed the wild hills of Eesaca — • 

God bless those who fell on that day ! 
Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory. 

Frowned down on the flag of the free ; 
But the East and the West bore our standard 

And Sherman marched on to the sea. 

Still onward we pressed, till our banners 

Swept out from Atlanta's grim waUs, 
And the blood of the patriot dampened 

The soil where the traitor-flag falls ; 
We paused not to weep for the fallen, 

Who slept by each river and tree, 
Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel. 

As Sherman marched down to the sea. 

Oh, proud was our army that morning, 

That stood where the pine darkly towers. 
When Sherman said, " Boys, you are weary. 

But to-day fair Savannah is ours ! " 
Then sang we the song of our chieftain, 

That echoed o'er river and lea, 
And the stars in our banner shone brighter 

AVlien Sherman marched down to the sea. 

Samuel H. M, Byers. 



DBIVING HOME THE COWS. 267 

Bribing J^ome tfte (Ecb0» 

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 

He turned them into the river-lane ; 
One after another he let them pass, 

Then fastened the meadow bars again. 

Under the willows, and over the hill. 
He patiently followed their sober pace ; 

The merry whistle for once was still, 

And something shadowed the sunny face. 

Only a boy ! and his father had said 

He never could let his youngest go ; 
Two already were lying dead 

Under the feet of the tramphng foe. 

But after the evening work was done, 

And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, 

Over his shoulder he slung his gun 
And stealthily followed the foot-path damp, 

Across the clover and through the wheat 
With resolute heart and purpose grim. 

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, 
And the blind bat's flitting startled him. 

Thrice since then had the lanes been white. 
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom ; 

And now, when the cows came back at night, 
The feeble father drove them home. 

For news had come to the lonely farm 

That three were lying where two had lain ; 

And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm 
Could never lean on a son's again. 

The summer day grew cool and late. 

He went for the cows when the work was done ; 



2 G 8 SIXGLE FA2I0 US P OEMS. 

But down the lane, as he opened the gate, 
He saw them coming one by one, — 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess. 

Shaking their horns in the evening wind ; 
Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,^ — 

But who was it f oho wing close behind ? 

Loosely swung in the idle air 

The empty sleeve of army blue ; 
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair. 

Looked out a face that the father knew. 

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, 
And yield their dead unto life again ; 

And the day that comes with a cloudy daTS'n 
In golden glory at last may wane. 

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes ; 

For the heart must speak when the hps are dumb ; 
And under the silent evening skies 

Together they followed the cattle home. 

Kate Putnam Osgood. 

flopping (Corn. 

And there they sat, a-popping corn, 

John Styles and Susan Cutter — 
John Styles as fat as any ox. 

And Susan fat as butter. 

An d there they sat and shelled the corn, 

And raked and stirred the fire, 
And talked of different kinds of corn, 

And hitched their chairs up nigher. 

Then Susan she the popper shook. 
Then John he shook the popper. 



TEE TWINS. 269 

Till both their faces grew as red 
As saucepans made of copper. 

And then they shelled, and popped, and ate, 

All kinds of fun a-poking, 
While he haw-hawed at her remarks, 

And she laughed at his joking. 

And still they popped, and still they ate — 

John's mouth was like a hopper — 
And stirred the fire, and sprinkled salt, 

And shook and shook the popper. 

The clock struck nine — the clock struck ten, 

And still the corn kept popping ; 
It struck eleven, and then struck twelve, 

And still no signs of stopping. 

And John he ate, and Sue she thought — 

The corn did pop and patter — 
Till John cried out, " The corn 's a-fire ! 

Why, Susan, what 's the matter? " 

Said sue, " John Styles, it 's one o'clock ; 

You '11 die of indigestion ; 
I 'm sick of all this popping corn — 

Why do n't you pop the question ? " 

Anonymous. 

In form and feature, face and limb, 

I grew so like my brother. 
That folks got taking me for him. 

And each for one another. 
It puzzled all our kith and kin. 

It reached a fearful pitch ; 



SINGLE FAMOUS FOEMS. 

For one of us was born a twin, 
And not a soul knew which. 

One day to make tlie matter worse, 

Before our names were fixed, 
As we were being washed by nurse, 

We got completely mixed ; 
And thus, you see, by fate's decree, 

Or rather nurse's whim, 
My brother John got christened me, 

And I got christened him. 

This fatal likeness ever dogged 

My footsteps when at school, 
And I was always getting flogged, 

When John turned out a fool. 
I put this question, fruitlessly, 

To every one I knew, 
" What would you do, if you were me. 

To prove that you were you." 

Our close resemblance turned the tide 

Of my domestic life, 
For somehow, my intended bride 

Became my brother's wife. 
In fact, year after year the same 

Absurd mistakes went on, 
And when I died, the neighbors came 

And buried brother John, 

Henry S. Leigh. 

E Ui'ttle <S?oo0e. 

The chiU ISTovember day was done, 

The working world home faring ; 
The wind came roaring through the streets 

And set the gas-lights flaring ; 



A LITTLE GOOSE. 271 

And hopelessly and aimlessly 

The scared old leaves were flying ; 
When, mingled with the sighing wind, 

I heard a small voice crying. 

And shivering on the corner stood 

A child of four, or over ; 
No cloak or hat her small, soft arms. 

And wind blown curls to cover. 
Her dimpled face was stained with tears ; 

Her round blue eyes ran over ; 
She cherished in her wee, cold hand, 

A bunch of faded clover. 

And one hand round her treasure while 

She slipped in mine the other : 
Half scared, half confidential, said, 
" Oh ! please, I want my mother ! " 
" Tell me your street and number, pet : 
Do n't cry, I '11 take you to it." 
Sobbing she answered, " I forget : 
The organ made me do it. 

" He came and played at Milly's steps, 

The monkey took the money ; 
And so I followed down the street. 

The monkey was so funny. 
I 've walked about a hundred hours, 

From one street to another : 
The monkey 's gone, I 've spoiled my flowers, 

Oh ! please, I want my mother." 

" But what 's your mother's name ? and what 
The street? Now think a minute." 

" My mother's name is mamma dear — 
The street — I can't begin it." 

" But what is strange about the house, 
Or new — not Uke the others ? " 



272 SIXGLE FAMOUS F OEMS. 

" I guess jou mean mj trundle-bed, 
Mine and mj little brother's. 

" Oh dear ! I ought to be at home 

To help him saj his prayers. — 
He 's such a baby he forgets ; 

And we are both such players ; — • 
And there 's a bar to keep us both 

From pitching on each other, 
Tor Harry rolls when he 's asleep : 

Oh dear ! I want my mother." 

The sky grew stormy ; people passed 
All muffled, homeward faring : 
"You '11 have to spend the night with me," 
I said at last, despairing. 
I tied a kerchief round her neck — 
'• AVhat ribbon 's this, my blossom ? " 
"Why do n't you know? " she smiUng, said, 
And drew it from her bosom. 

A card with number, street, and name ; 
My eyes astonished met it ; 
" Eor," said the httle one, " you see 
I might sometimes forget it : 
And so I wear a httle thing 
That tells you all about it ; 
For mother says she 's very sure 
I should get lost without it." 

Eliza Speoat Tuexer. 

A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee. 

Your tired knee that has so much to bear ; 

A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 
From underneath a thatch of tan2:led hair. 



TIBED 3f OTHERS. 273 

Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch 

Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight ; 

You do not prize this blessing overmuch, — 
You almost are too tired to pray to-night. 

But it is blessedness I A year ago 

I did not see it as I do to-day — 
We are so dull and thankless ; and too slow 

To catch the sunshine till it shps away. 
And now it seems surpassing strange to me, 

That, while I wore the badge of motherhood, 
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 

The httle child that brought me only good 

And if, some night when you sit down to rest, 

You miss this elbow from your tired knee,— 
This restless curling head from off your breast, — 

This lisping tongue that chatters constantly ; 
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, 

And ne'er would nestle in your palm again ; 
If the white feet into their grave had tripped, 

I could not blame you for your heartache then, 

I wonder so that mothers ever fret 

At Httle children clinging to their gown ; 
Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, 

Are ever black enough to make them frown. 
If I could find a little muddy boot, 

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor, — 
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, 

And hear it patter in my house once more, — 

If I could mend a broken cart to-day. 
To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, 

There is no woman in G-od's world could say 
She was more bhssfuUy content than I. 

But ah 1 the dainty pillow next my own 
Is never rumpled by a shining head; 



274 SIXGLi: FAMO US P OEMS. 

My singing birdling from its nest is flown, — 
The little boj I used to kiss is dead ! 

!Mat Eilet SinxiL 

When- the lessons and tasks are all ended. 

And the school for the day is dismissed, 
The httle ones gather around me 

To bid me good-night and be kissed : 
Oh, the httle white arms that encircle 

My neck in their tender embrace ! 
Ob, the smiles that are halos of heaven, 

Shedding sunshine of love on my face ! 

And ^vhen they are gone I sit dreaming 

Of my childhood too lovely to last ; 
Of joy that my heart will rememberj 

While it wakes to the pulse of the pa^t, 
Ere the world and its wickedness made me 

A partner of sorrow and sin, 
When the glory of Grod was about me, 

And the glory of gladness within. 

All my heart grows as weak as a woman's, 

And the fountains of feehng will flow, 
When I think of the paths, steep and stony. 

Where the feet of the dear ones must go : 
Of the mountains of Sin hanging o'er them. 

Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild ; 
Oh ! there 'a nothing on earth half so holy 

As the innocent heart of a child ! 

They are idols of hearts and of households ; 

They are angels of Grod in disguise ; 
His sunlight stfll sleeps in their tresses, 

His glory stfll gleams iQ their eyes, 
Those truants from home and from heaven, 

They have made me more manly and mild ! 



THE CHILDREN. 275 

And I know, now, liow Jesus could liken 
The kingdom of God to a child. 

I ask not a life for the dear ones, 

All radiant, as others have done. 
But that life may have just enough shadoAV 

To temper the glare of the sun; 
I would pray Grod to guard them from evil, 

But my prayer would bound back to myself ; 
Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner, 

But a sinner must pray for himself. 

The twig is so easily bended, 

I have banished the rule and the rod ; 
I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, 

They have taught me the goodness of God ; 
My heart is the dungeon of darkness, 

Where I shut them for breaking a rule ; 
My frown is sufficient correction ; 

My love is the law of the school 

I shall leave the old house in the autumn, 

To traverse its threshold no more ; 
Ah I how I shall sigh for the dear ones. 

That meet me each morn at the door ; 
I shall miss the " good nights " and the kisses, 

And the gush of their innocent glee, 
The group on the green, and the flowers 

That are brought every morning for me. 

I shall miss them at morn and at even, 

Their song in the school and the street ; 
I shall miss the low hum of their voices, 

And the tread of their dehcate feet. 
"When the lessons of life are all ended, 

And death says "the school is dismissed," 
May the little ones gather around me, 

To bid me good-night and be kissed ! 

Charles M. Dickinson. 



NOTES, 



3fy Mind to me a Kingdom is. Page 1. William Byrd (b. 1540, d. 
1623) was organist to Queea Elizabeth, and composed an immense 
amount of vocal music. 

The Lye. Page 2. The authorship of this poem has been disputed, 
and it is commonly printed as anonymous. But Percy ascribes it to 
Raleigh, and a copy of it among the Chetham manuscripts bears his 
signature. 

Ifan's Mortality. Page 6. Simon Wastel (b. about 1566) published in 
1629 " Microbiblion, or the Bible's Epitome in Verse," of which these 
famous stanzas are a fragment. 

Verses. Page 9. The story of Chediock Ticheborne is told in Dis- 
raeli's " Curiosities of Literature," Vol. II. 

Good Ale. Page 18. John Still (d. 1607), Bishop of Bath and Wells, 
was the author of " Gammer Gurton's Needle," one of the earliest of 
English comedies. 

The Sailor's Wife. Page 76. This poem has been commonly attributed 
to Mickle, author of " Cumnor Hall," because an imperfect copy of it was 
found among his papers. He himself never claimed it, nor would he be 
likely to have written it, as he never lived in a seaport. Miss Adam was 
a poor school-mistress, who lived near Greenock, and died in Glasgow in 
1765. She published a volume of poems, and claimed this one as hers. 

Helen of Kirkconnel. Page 93. There are numerous versions of this 
poem. The one here given, by John Mayne (b. 1759, d. 1836), is metric- 
ally the most perfect. It was published by Sir Walter Scott, in the Edin- 
burgh "Annual Register" for 1815, M'ho says : "A lady of the name of 
Helen Irving or Bell (for this is disputed by the two clans), daughter of 
the laird of Kirkconnell, in Dumfriesshire, and celebrated for her beauty, 
was beloved by two gentlemen in the neighborhood. The name of the 
favored suitor was Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick ; that of the other has 
escaped tradition, although it has been alleged that he was a Bell of 
24 



278 NOTES. 

Blacket House. The addresses of the latter were, however, favored by 
the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet in 
secret, and by night, in the church-yard of Kirkconnell, a romantic spot 
surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of these private interviews, 
the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank 
of the stream, and leveled his carabine at the breast of his rival. Helen 
threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and 
died in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between 
Fleming and the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces. Other 
accounts say that Fleming pursued his enemy to Spain, and slew him in 
the streets of Madrid." These events occurred in the reign of Mary 
Queen of Scots. 

The Tears I Shed. Page 99. Helen D'Arcy Cranstoun (b. 1765, d. 
1838) became in 1790 the second wife of Prof. Dugald Stewart. The first 
four lines of the last stanza were inserted by Burns. 

Lucy's Flittm\ Page 105. William Laidlaw (b. 1780, d. 1845) was 
the amanuensis and confidential friend of Sir Walter Scott. "Lucy's 
Flittin' " was contributed to Hogg's "Forest Minstrel," and Hogg him- 
self wrote the closing stanza. 

A Eiddle. Page 109. This enigma has been frequently attributed tc 
Lord Byron, and printed in two or three editions of his works. The 
answer is, the letter H. 

Saint Patrick. Page 113. According to Samuel Lover, these verses 
were written in 1814 by two gentlemen jointly, while on their way to a 
masquerade where they were to appear as ballad-singers, Henry Ben- 
nett (b. in Cork about 1785) being one of them. 

The Beacon. Page 122. This little poem has been persistently at- 
tributed to Moore ; but it has been conclusively shown that it is the pro- 
duction of P. M. James, an Englishman. 

I would not Live Alway. Page 128. Dr. Muhlenberg made several 
revisions of his famous poem. The versions in the hymn-books contain 
some striking lines that do not appear in his final revision, which is here 
presented. 

The Bivmioc of the Lead. Page 197. In accordance with an act of the 
legislature of Kentucky, the remains of the soldiers from that state who 
fell at Buena Vista were brougiit home to Frankfort, and there interred 
under a handsome monument. This was the occasion of O'Hara's poem. 

Lines on a Skeleton. Page 301. The manuscript of this poem was 
found near a skeleton in the London Royal College of Surgeons, about 
1820. The author has never been found, though a reward of fifty guineas 
was ofEered for his discovery. 

The ExUe to his Wife. Page 323. ' Joseph Brenan (b. 1829, d. 1857) was 
a native of the north of Ireland. He joined the Young Ireland party in 
1848, and was one of the conductors of the "Irish Felon." He was im- 



NOTES. 279 

prisoned for nine months in Dublin, afterw^ard edited the "Irishman," 
and in October, 1849, being implicated in an insurrectionary movement 
in Tipperary, fled to America. He was for three years connected with 
the New Orleans "Delta," and died in that city in May, 1857. 

Ode on the Centenm^ of Burns. Page 339. Miss Craig's ode, which 
bore off the prize, offered by the directors of the Crystal Palace Company, 
from more than six hundred competitors, is one of the few prize poems 
■which have possessed any poetical merit. 

The Old Canoe. Page 347. All efforts to discover the authorship of 
this popular poem have been unavailing. It has been attributed to 
Albert Pike, but he disclaims it. 

Pevelry in India. Page 356. These lines are said to have been sung 
by a company of British officers stationed at a frontier post in India 
during a pestilence. It Is also said that the author of them was the next 
victim. 

The Countersign. Page 364. Concerning the authorship of "The 
Countersign," we only know that it was written by a private in Company 
G of Stuart's Engineers, at Camp Lesley, near Washington, during the 
first year of the Rebellion. It seems too good to have been a first poem ; 
but it is to be feared that the chances of war made it the last, as it has 
never been claimed. 

Sherman's March to the Sea. Page 365. Adjutant Bters, Fifth Iowa 
Infantry, wrote this song while a prisoner at Columbia, S. C. General 
Sherman, to whom a copy of the lines was handed when he arrived at 
that place, so admired them that he sent for the author and attached 
him to his staff. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint 

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun 

Afar in the desert I love to ride 

Ah me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn . 

A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store 

Alas ! how dismal is my tale . 

Alas ! the weary hours pass slow 

A little elbow leans upon your knee 

"All quiet along the Potomac," they say 

A monk, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er 

And are ye sure the news is true ? 

And there they sat, a popping corn 

A superciHous nabob of the east 

Backward, turn backward, Time, in your flight 
Behold this ruin I 'T is a skull 
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride 
By Nebo's lonely mountain 



PAGE. 

19 
114 
119 

56 
158 
106 
264 
272 
263 
109 

76 
268 
111 

224 
201 

52 
249 



Come a little nearer, Doctor, — thank you ! — let me take 

the cup 234 

Come see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 't is at a white 

heat now 146 

Come to me, darling, I 'm lonely without thee . 223 



Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main . 94 
Did you hear of the Widow Malone . . . 153 



282 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 

England's sun was slowly setting, o'er the hills so far 



away 



Fair stood the wind for France 

Far in a wild, unknown to public view 

From the quickened womb of the primal gloom 

Groe, soule, the bodie's guest .... 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! . 
Happy insect ! ever blest .... * 
Happy the man who, void of cares and strife 
Harness me down with your iron bands 
Her suffering ended with the day .... 

Hie upon Hielands 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood 
Ho ! why dost thou shiver and shake 
How little recks it where men lie . 



I am dying, Egypt, dying 

I am old and blind 

I asked an aged man, with hoary hairs 

I can not eat but little meat . 

I fill this cup to one made up ... . 

I gaed to spend a week in Fife 

I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old 

I in these flowery meads would be 

I loved thee long and dearly 

I 'm often asked by plodding souls . 

I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary 

In form and feature, face and limb 

In good King Charles's golden days . 

In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay 

In their ragged regimentals 

I said to sorrow's awful storm 

I sat with Doris, the shepherd maiden 

It was the calm and silent night 



253 

10 

37 
177 



87 
51 
32 

204 

179 
36 

115 
85 

202 

217 
252 

90 

18 
138 
142 
139 

23 
190 

78 
155 
269 

71 
131 
220 
116 
221 
180 



mDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



283 



I weigli not fortune's frown or smile 

I wish I were where Helen lies 

I would not live alway, I ask not to stay • . 

Last night among his fellow roughs 
Life, I know not what thou art . 
Like as the damask rose you see 
Love me little, love me long- 
Love still has something of the sea 

Methinks it is good to be here . 

Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square 

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 

My dear and only love, I pray 

My life is like the summer rose . 

My mind to me a kingdom is . . . 

My prime of youth is but a frost of care 

Mysterious Night ! when our first parent knew 

Nearer, my God, to thee .... 

ISTigh to a grave that was newly made 

a dainty plant is the ivy green . 

blithely shines the bonny sun 

Of all the girls that are so smart 

Oft has it been my lot to mark . 

Old Grimes is dead ; that good old man 

On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billow 

Only a baby small 

Only waiting till the shadows 

say can you see, by the dawn's early hght 

the charge at Balaklava ! ... 

then tell me. Shawn O'Ferrall • . 

Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountain 

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 

Over the river they beckon to me 

waly, waly up the bank 



15 
93 

128 

176 

83 

6 

16 

26 

130 

207 

69 

27 

118 

1 

9 

99 

199 
175 

181 
125 
U 
65 
123 
152 
226 
248 
103 
186 
258 
265 
267 
232 
68 



284 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 

0, where will be the bn^ds that sinof .... 203 

why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? . . 122 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man ... 96 

Eifleman, shoot me a fancy shot .... 262 

St. Patrick was a gentleman ^ 113 

She died in beauty, — hke a rose . . , .163 

Silent nymph, Avith curious eye .... 46 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine .... 100 

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake . . . . 97 

The blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore . . 127 

The chill ISTovember day was done . . , 270 

The despot's heel is on thy shore . . . • . 259 

The dews of summer night did fall ... 72 

The dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine .... 191 

The glories of our birth and state . . . . 24 

The groves of Blarney, they look so charming . . 92 

The maid, and thereby hangs a tale ... 24 

The moon had climbed the highest hiH ... 89 

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat . . . 197 

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime ... 44 

The nautilus and the ammonite . . . . 218 

The Orient day was fresh and fair .... 164 

There is a happy land 157 

There 's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot 189 

There sat an old man on a rock . . . . 239 

The scene was more beautiful far to the eye . . 122 

The tears I shed must ever fall .... 99 

The tree of deepest root is found .... 80 

This winter weather, it waxeth cold ... 13 

'T is midnight's holy hour, — and silence now . . 135 

'T was a jolly old pedagogue, long ago . . . 226 
'T was in heaven pronounced, and 'twas muttered in 

hell 109 



INDEX OF FIBST LINES. 285 

'T was the night before Chrislmas, when all through 

the house 102 

'T was when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in' 105 

Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain 243 

Two Yankee wags, one summer day . . . 158 

"Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town . . 246 

We hail this morn . • . . . . . 229 

W'e meet 'neath the sounding rafter . . . 256 

What constitutes a state 86 

What dreaming drone was ever blest ... 95 

When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame . 117 

When another life is added 240 

Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill . .182 

When shall we three meet again? .... 84 
When the humid showers gather over all the starry 

spheres 244 

When the lessons and tasks are all ended . . 274 
W^hen the sheep are in the fauld, and a' the k3^e at 

hame 88 

Where the rocks are gray, and the shore is steep . 247 

Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight? . . . 195 

Why thus longing, thus for ever sighing . . 206 
W^ild was the night, yet a wilder might . . .151 

Willy 's rare, and Willy 's fair .... 8 

W^ith deep affection 149 

Ye gentlemen of England 26 

" You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, 

who stood 124 

You knew — who knew not Astrophel ? . . 5 

You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier . . 193 



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